City of Shadows
by Siavahda
Summary: "Or is he?" Jace asked. "Have you had dealings with demons, little boy? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you–" "Did you run out of alliteration?" Simon interrupted. "Night Children – what is that, vampires, probably, could you not think of any verbs beginning with v? Verbalize, vent, venerate, vacuum – that's a good one, *have you vacuumed with vampires*-"
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: When Simon Fray follows a blue-haired boy into a storage room, he has no idea how strange his world is about to get. A Mortal Instruments rewrite. Eventual Jace/Simon.

**NB**: I enjoyed rewriting the Twilight verse into _Solar Flare_ so much that I decided to do it again - only not with Twilight. The first few chapters will stick very closely to canon, but then we will probably diverge, possibly drastically. The credit (read: blame) goes to Cassie, aka starry_nights88, who is, incidentally, the best beta a writer could possibly have.

**NB2**: None of the songs Millennium Lint sing are original, unless I specifically mention otherwise. The actual songs will be named at the end of each chapter (since the html won't let me link to them for some reason). At the end of this fic, there will be a playlist, and also a link to an ebook version of the entire fic that you will be able to download.

And we're off!

* * *

"Oh my _God_," Clary gasped as they pulled up, "You're playing _here?!_"

Simon grinned, excitement pooling in his fingers and stomach as he switched off the engine. "Pretty cool, huh?" He'd been waiting for this reaction since learning they had a gig at Clary's favourite club.

She punched his arm, but she was grinning back at him. "You _think?_ And here I thought you didn't like it here. God, I'm so proud of you!"

There was no line in front of the performer's entrance of Pandemonium, but the alley was scattered with people come outside for a smoke or a hook-up. Simon conscientiously averted his eyes from the handful of kissing couples as he texted his bandmates to come help unload the van.

Clary watched him. "Do you think they'll hear their phones over the music?" she asked doubtfully.

Simon shrugged as he pocketed his phone. "They'd better. I'm not carrying Eric's drum set in by myself!"

)0(

_What am I doing here?_

This was not Millennium Lint's usual crowd. Hell, this was the first time there'd ever _been _a crowd; playing in basements and the Alto Bar did not prepare one for the dry-ice fog and the LSD lights of Pandemonium, and now that Simon was actually standing on the stage, he was starting to rethink the part where this was a good idea.

Eric clapped him on the back. "You ready for this?" he asked cheerfully.

Simon debated the likelihood of his friends having any clothes he could borrow: his MADE IN BROOKLYN t-shirt suddenly had him feeling underdressed. There were people here with blue hair, for crying out loud! They wouldn't want his weird brand of humour! "Um, I think so?"

"That's the spirit!"

Simon brushed the strings of his bass as Eric went to check on the others. _Deep breaths, Simon,_ he told himself. His glasses slipped down his nose a little, and he pushed them back up absently. _You're in a real club, with a real band. You're good. You know you're good. Don't screw up and tonight could be the start of a beautiful relationship with Fame._

He saw Eric talking to the manager and felt adrenalin coiling sickly in his gut.

_Deep breaths,_ he reminded himself.

"On in five," Eric mouthed at him, returning to the stage. Matt and Kirk exchanged grins in the corner of Simon's vision; Simon tightened his grip on his bass and breathed.

_You can do this._

It felt like no time at all before the club's music wound down, stilling the dancers as if someone had pressed pause. The lights swung towards the stage, calling everyone's attention to the band there, and – yeah, okay, that was nerve-wracking, all those curious/expectant eyes turned on him. _Wow_. For a split second Simon was overwhelmed by the wash of colour, the strange-cool clothing, the flash of conspicuous piercings in lips and eyebrows. _Don't those hurt?_

Then he remembered himself, and stepped up to the mike in front of him. His eyes found Clary in the crowd – she was beaming – and he talked directly to her, blocking out everyone else.

"Hey guys," his voice boomed out through the room. It felt unreal, separate from him, so that it was easier to slide a little deeper into the semi-cool persona of a bass player. "We're Millennium Lint, and we have something to say: let us entertain you!"

A ripple of laughter flowed through the crowd at the Queen reference. Simon grinned and glanced at the others, who nodded at him: they were ready, had been ready for weeks, they knew just what to do.

_Here goes nothing_, Simon thought. His fingers found the opening chords of _Make a Move_, the music unwound like a roll of silk, and he opened his mouth and sang.

"_Test my reality  
Check-if-there's-a-weak, spot,  
Clingin' to insanity  
In hopes the world will _ease up,

_Try to make it look like it's all somehow getting better,  
'Cause I know how to play it pretty good against the measure..._"

)0(

They. Went. _Nuts._

_They like me, they really like me!_ Simon laughed to himself as the crowd danced themselves into a frenzy, hypnotised by the magic Simon and his friends wove with their instruments and voices. There was no real lightshow – there hadn't been time to try and create one, even if Millennium Lint had known the first thing about lights, which they didn't – but they didn't need one: Pandemonium's fairyland colours were more than enough, flashing and strobing as if they'd all been whisked away to some other world, some other planet with multi-coloured stars streaking past the stage. Simon felt juiced, electric and powerful and jubilant; his fingers never slipped, his voice never stuttered, and the words seemed to just flow out, never forgotten or mixed up.

"_Listen _up_, listen _up!_  
There's a devil in the church,  
Got a bullet in the chamber  
And~ this is gonna_ hurt! "

Clary was dancing. No surprise there – everyone was – but it gave Simon a special thrill to see her with her head thrown back to his music – to the sound he was creating, the magic he was weaving with fingers and voice.

_Magic words_, he thought, grinning, and slid Millennium Lint into the song he'd written especially for tonight, thinking that this crowd would appreciate it;

"_It's time to feel~ the beat in my skin,  
The people keep on beg~ging me to give in,  
To the way~ that they want to move,  
Too many people trying to tell you what to do –_

I'm_ not, gonna tell you to dance,  
Just gonna keep, on, doing my thing,  
_I'm_ not, gonna tell you to move,  
Just gonna keep on playing the, way I'm playing –_

_Don't dance, don't dance, don't dance, don't dance  
_Don't_ dance, _don't_ dance, _don't_ dance, _don't_ dance –_"

No surprise that they loved this one – he'd poured so much feeling into writing it, trying to capture the transient emotions music evoked in him: the freedom of creating, the high of a good performance (even in a basement where nobody could hear you), the wild euphoria that was adrenalin and excitement and pride all mixed together into a glittering cocktail. His face and hair were wet with sweat and he didn't care, barely noticed; he swung forward into the mike and sang, mocking and inviting the crowd in on the joke;

"_This isn't an apology,  
Just some reverse psychology  
'Cause-if-I-tell-you-not-to-do-something then I can guarantee..." _

He smirked, feeling wicked and wild. "_**You'll do it**_."

They went ape-shit; the girls, and a good number of the guys as well, completely lost their minds as he purred out the words. It wasn't the drowning roar of an audience at a real concert, but a heck of a mental high-five nonetheless.

It was _so unbelievably awesome_.

)0(

They took a break after _Don't Dance_. Simon didn't realise how thirsty he was until he lowered his bass to its stand; his throat was a little sore from all the enthusiastic singing, but God, he felt like he was on top of the world. This must be how Superman felt the first time he saved the world.

_And this is how he felt with Lois Lane_, he thought a minute later as Clary attacked him with a hug.

"You guys were amazing!" she yelled over the music (which had come back on when the band announced their break). "I've never heard you play so well!"

Simon grinned sheepishly. Without his bass in hand – without the mike – he could feel his _cool_ slipping away, like water between his fingers. "I'm really glad you enjoyed it!" he shouted back. "I'm going to get a drink, do you want anything?"

"A coke would be great!"

With a nod, Simon began making his way through the crowd. At first it was a quest of nearly epic proportions – the place was packed as tightly as a can of sardines, and for a minute or two he thought there would be no reaching the bar. But then someone recognised him as from the band, and then another, and then there were dozens of people congratulating and complimenting him, happily moving out of his way. It was dizzying, the blur of people and voices; he could barely hear anyone and only had fleeting impressions of what they were saying, and with the lights and the height of the crowd he suddenly realised he'd gotten completely turned around. When he shoved his way out of the pack, he noticed, with a slight sinking of heart, that he was on completely the wrong side of the room.

He didn't relish the thought of pushing his way through again, and looked around to see if there were any vending machines or something on this side. It was a faint hope, but he clung to it, peering through the fog and the lights for some source of liquid nourishment.

Which was when he spotted..._them_.

His eyes were so used to the rainbow of colour that seeing a boy with blue hair didn't even register. What drew his eyes back was the way Blue Hair was walking; graceful, but somehow reminiscent of a hunting animal – maybe a wolf – stalking prey. It was so out of place with the other happily dancing teenagers that he frowned, confused; it looked...sinister. Worrying.

Simon's concern spiked when he followed Blue Hair's gaze to a – really _beautiful _girl in a white dress. She looked like the kind of figure Clary might like to draw, a fairytale princess – hair black as night and skin white as snow, that kind of thing.

But she was smiling at Blue Hair, and Simon looked away sharply, feeling his cheeks warm. None of his business, he thought firmly, and was about to risk the crowd again when he saw a glint of light in the corner of his eye.

When he turned back, he realised that what he had thought was a plastic stake in Blue Hair's hand was actually a long, sharp knife.

For a second, Simon just stared, unable to believe his eyes. A _knife?_ What – why would anyone bring a knife to a club?

_I have to get security,_ he thought suddenly, but the girl was slipping into a room marked NO ADMITTANCE and Blue Hair was following her and there wasn't – there wasn't _time_ –

_Shit shit shit_. Simon scrabbled for his phone and fired off a text to Clary, trying to walk towards the room and text at the same time. _Gy w/ knif in no admin room_ _get scurty!_ Hoping that was understandable, he shoved the phone in his pocket and broke into a run.

"Hey!" he shouted, as loudly as he could as he slammed the door open. "He has a –"

He stopped, confused. The room was empty.

_What the – ?_

He turned around to look back the way he'd come, wondering if Blue Hair and the girl had slipped back out when he wasn't looking. _Not unless that kid was the Flash_, he decided.

When he looked back –

It was as if some force field of invisibility or illusion had suddenly failed: there was the girl in her luminescent dress, tossing back her long sweep of hair with a smirk curved over her mouth; and there was Blue Hair, snapping and snarling and _Jesus Christ, those weren't human teeth!_

Two more boys were wrestling Blue Hair into submission with what looked like disgusting ease; the smaller blonde one wrapped freaking _piano wire_ around Blue Hair's wrists while the darker-haired boy held him still, and Simon might have protested if Blue Hair wasn't snapping teeth that belonged in a shark's mouth, not a boy's.

_Holy smokes, Batman!_

Simon made an elective decision and ducked behind one of the room's concrete pillars. His heart was pounding, and he felt locked in place, as if all his muscles had abruptly seized. _You're seeing things,_ he told himself as his hands started to shake a little. _You're dehydrated and hallucinating. Or it was a trick of the light. _Hadn't he read somewhere that the brain only registered a set amount of what you saw, and filled in the rest as it pleased? Simon's brain was hyped up on comic books and anime; maybe today it had decided to spice up what it was seeing.

So why didn't he believe that?

"Are there any of your kind with you?" one of the boys said.

'_Your kind'? Oh God, I've gotten mixed up in a gang war._ Simon nearly face-palmed himself before realising that They might hear.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" He guessed that was Blue Hair, but it was strange; the voice was kind of whiny and annoyed, where Simon would have just been scared if some punks had tied _him_ up with piano wire.

_But Blue Hair did have a knife,_ Simon reminded himself.

"Really?"

It was the same voice as before – one of the boys in black – but this time it made something in Simon shiver strangely. Just one word, but it was the way he said it; a long, slow drawl, almost a purr. It slid down Simon's spine like warm honey, like the caress of a nail.

_This is so not the time!_ Simon yelled at his dick.

"How about I clear things up for you?" the same boy asked, and Simon heard a rustle of fabric, like sleeves being pushed up. "How about these? Do you know what these are?"

Blue Hair hissed and spat. _"Shadowhunter_."

Simon heard the smile as the boy said "Exactly. Well done. Now," and Simon knew that sound from a hundred animes, a thousand video games; the sound of a blade coming free of its sheath, "How about we try this again?"

"Stop kidding around, Jace," another male voice said – the other boy, Simon assumed. "He's not going to tell us anything."

"No!" Blue Hair protested. "I – I can give you information! I know where Valentine is!"

"Seriously?" Jace scoffed. "By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim you know where Valentine is. Well, we know where he is too: he's in Hell. And _you can join him there_ – "

Simon didn't even think about it; he stepped out from behind the pillar before he realised he'd meant to. "Stop it!"

Jace whirled, so surprised that the knife in his hand flew from his grip to clatter against the floor. It shone in the dim neon light, and Simon's eyes caught on it against his will: it looked as though it belonged in a video game, all long slender crystal with red jewels dotting the grip. When he glanced back up, all four of them – Jace, the other boy, the girl in the white dress, and Blue Hair – were all staring at him like they'd never seen a human before.

_Not a good thought_, Simon thought nervously. It was too obvious that there was something really, _really _weird going on here.

"What's this?" The other boy – not Jace – demanded, glancing at Jace and the girl as if they might be responsible for Simon's appearance.

"A boy," Jace said, regaining his composure. "Come on now, Alec, you've seen boys before."

The girl laughed, a clear, rich sound. "He's got you there," she grinned at Alec.

Alec glared. "A _mundie_ boy," he said through gritted teeth. "Who can _see us_."

"Of course I can see you – I'm short-sighted, not _blind_, at least not when I'm wearing my glasses," Simon said-slash-babbled – and then the word 'mundie' caught up with him. "Hang on, what did you just call me?"

Jace made a dismissive gesture, and for the first time Simon noticed the elaborate, swirling tattoos sheathing both his arms. "Go away, mundie boy."

Simon blinked. "What? No!"

Jace cocked his head. "Why not?"

Simon gaped at him. "Why n – because – because you'll kill him," he pointed at Blue Hair "if I do!"

"Yes," Jace said patiently, as if explaining something blatantly obvious to someone very slow. "But there's no need to worry," he added brightly, ducking down to snatch up his fairytale knife. "That's not a human, little boy. It may look like a human and talk like a human and maybe even bleed like a human. But it's a monster."

Simon bristled at the _little boy_, but the girl spoke before he could. "That's enough, Jace."

"My friend is bringing the security personnel," Simon said quickly before Jace could do more than twirl his blade between his fingers. It spun like a glittering Catherine wheel. "They'll be here any minute."

"He's lying," Alec said, but he looked doubtful suddenly. "Jace, will you – "

There was no telling what he would have said (although Simon had his suspicions): with a screech of rage and probably pain Blue Hair ripped through the wire around his hands and lunged for Jace with nails that glittered like metal.

What happened next – what happened next happened too quickly for Simon to really see; it only processed later. The girl's arm snapped, something gold and shining flashed from her hand and struck like a serpent, wrapped around Blue Hair's throat; and Jace, in the same moment, as the boy with shark's teeth screeched like a harpy, whipped his hand forward and –

Plunged his crystal knife deep into Blue Hair's chest.

Black gunk _exploded_ from the wound. Simon's arms flew up to protect his face with a little moue of disgust, because _ick_, there was no way that stuff was hygienic, he was going to need all kinds of anti-bacterial wipes. And, yep, when he lowered his arms his sleeves were covered in it.

"That," he said deliberately, "Is disgusting."

No one was listening to him. Heck, Simon wasn't listening to _himself_. He wondered, a little too calmly, if he was going into shock, and if shock caused hallucinations, because Blue Hair was writhing on Jace's knife (wow, that sounded bad) and –

Simon blinked, removed his glasses, rubbed at them with a bit of clean shirt, and replaced them.

No, Blue Hair was still – folding up, smaller and smaller, a bizarre kind of melting-dissolving thing. Simon stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing, until Blue Hair just – disappeared. Completely. _Gone_.

"Did someone drug me?" Simon wondered aloud. As all eyes turned to him, he corrected himself, "No, you can't have, I haven't had anything to drink yet."

"What's he babbling about?" Alec snapped.

Jace shrugged, and raised a gold eyebrow at Simon. "What are you babbling about, mundie boy?"

Simon screwed his eyes shut, but when he counted to ten, they were all three still there, and his sleeves were still covered in black – blood.

The body – Blue Hair – was still gone, with only a splatter of ichor to show it had ever been there.

"They return to their home dimensions when they die," said Jace, seeing him look. "In case you were wondering."

"Jace!" the girl snapped.

Jace walked forward, mind-bogglingly nonchalant for a person who had just killed someone. His knife – it didn't look like a knife, really, more like a slender stake of glass – was smeared with black, and he wiped it off on his trousers with an ease – a familiarity that sent chills down Simon's spine, before looking up and meeting Simon's gaze. "He can see us, Isabelle," he said. "He already knows too much."

Jesus, _that_ didn't sound good. Simon wondered if this was where he was supposed to put his hands up and tell them he didn't want any trouble; that's how it would go if they were playing to a script. But they weren't, and Simon – didn't want to be that pathetic. He would be lying if he said he wasn't scared – terrified, more like, he'd never seen anyone die outside of a game console and these three were so creepily _blithe _about it – but it wasn't like the 'no trouble' line ever _worked_, anyway.

He held his breath and waited, praying that Clary would show up sometime in, oh, the next five seconds or so.

"So what do we do with him?" Isabelle demanded. She cracked her whip, and Simon might have made a joke about dominatrix if he hadn't seen how the thin cord had burned Blue Hair's throat.

_Oh, God, please don't let me die tonight,_ he pleaded. Not on the very first night of Millennium Lint's success!

"Let him go," Jace said quietly. He was staring at Simon with a strangely intense expression, one that Simon had never seen directed at himself before and had no idea how to interpret. His eyes were a strange colour, Simon noted almost without surprise – it wasn't as though things could get much stranger. They were almost colourless, or beyond colour; like light.

"Maybe we should bring him back with us," Alec suggested thoughtfully. "I bet Hodge would like to talk to him."

"No way are we bringing him to the Institute," Isabelle protested. "He's a _mundie_."

That word again. It pricked at Simon's brain, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before.

"Or is he?" Jace asked softly. The velvety murmur was worse than Isabelle's snapping or Alec's frustration, and he still hadn't looked away from Simon. "Have you had dealings with demons, little boy? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you – "

"Did you run out of alliteration?" Simon interrupted. " 'Night Children' – what is that, vampires, probably, could you not think of any verbs beginning with v? Verbalize, vent, venerate, vacuum – that's a good one, _have you_ _vacuumed with vampires_ – "

"Simon?" It was Clary's voice. He whirled around. Clary was standing by the storage room door, beside a large man Simon assumed was one of the bouncers. "Are you okay? What happened to the guy you saw?"

Simon stared at her. Then he looked back – at Jace, Isabelle, and Alec, none of whom looked surprised by Clary's apparent blindness. Jace was holding his knife in full view, and both he and Simon were splashed with ichor.

Jace grinned and swept a mocking bow.

Slowly Simon turned back to Clary, feeling his heart sink as he realised what he must look like, standing alone in a random storage room. "I think I got confused," he said quietly, hating his face for turning red. He couldn't bring himself to look at Clary, whose concerned expression was quickly becoming embarrassed, or the bouncer, who just looked annoyed. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry."

Behind him, Alec laughed.

)0(

Simon returned to the stage after fending off Clary's questions and finally getting that drink, but the magic was gone. He played well, sang well, the crowd still seemed happy, but he was in safe mode. All his higher functions were disabled or otherwise occupied. The words, the chords – they came automatically, but his mind was miles away, swooping and swerving like a bird.

What the hell had he seen?

"Are you really all right?" Clary asked doubtfully when they left the club. Simon was driving the van home; tomorrow he would have to make the rounds, dropping off everyone's instruments, but for tonight it was easier to just load them all in the van. "You seem kind of...I don't know, off."

He made himself smile at her. "I'm fine."

She frowned at him, but didn't push. They discussed how the performance had gone, how the crazy rumours about Pandemonium were absolutely true, and joked about someday hearing Millennium Lint on the radio – everything, in short, except Simon's apparent mental breakdown.

He still hadn't made sense of it by the time he pulled in outside his apartment building.

"Simon! How did it go?" His mom, Jocelyn Fray, put down her paintbrush as he walked in and raised his eyebrows at whatever his face was doing. "Uh oh. That bad?"

He shook his head. "No, it – it was great." But his enthusiasm – so potent just an hour or so ago – had dwindled almost to nothing. "Mom, is there any history of mental illness in our family?"

She laughed, but it sounded a little strained. "Why on earth do you ask?"

"I saw some guys that no one else could see," he answered absently, without even thinking about it. He fully expected her to laugh it off, but – "Mom? Are you okay?"

Jocelyn had gone pale, as washed out as her white paint. After a beat she ducked her head and her gaze returned to her painting, but he could tell that she wasn't seeing her canvas. "I'm fine, sweetheart. I'm glad it went well, but it's late. I'm going to crash, okay?" She gathered up her things while he stared at her, bewildered by her strange reaction. "Remember to turn off the lights."

"Of course," he answered automatically.

It wasn't until she was gone that he realised she had never answered his question.

* * *

This chapter's songs, are, in order:

_Make a Move_ - Icon for Hire

(You can download a male-pitched version of this song at www dot box dot com slash s slash nvxag3vizh2app8l6mi4)

_This Is Gonna Hurt_ - Sixx A.M.

_Don't Dance_ - Simon Curtis


	2. Chapter 2

_A little danger's never stopped me before...  
Seduced by hypnotic eyes, and, a kiss to die for..._

"And lo, they died one and all, for the urge to gag was too strong and they could not breathe," Simon muttered. He ripped out the sheet of notepaper and chucked it to the floor, where it joined half a dozen other paper snowballs; proof that his brain was not up for song writing today.

He sighed. He'd woken at an hour even Neil Cuddahy would have deemed too early, and since then he hadn't managed to settle. Even good old WoW had left him feeling restless, as if his skin had grown too tight, or had been filled with crumbs when he wasn't looking, like the rhino in that Kipling story.

His dreams had been surreal, hazy and strange, the events of the night before turned even more impossible by the bubbling cauldron of his subconscious, and the images wouldn't leave him: the glittering knife, the inhuman razors in Blue Hair's mouth, the strange intensity in Jace's face. It was enough to make him wish he was a painter – like his mom, like Clary – rather than a singer.

His phone rang shrilly, startling him out of his reverie; he snatched for it and nearly fell off his bed in a graceless flail of tumbling limbs. He managed to right himself, grabbed the phone, and answered it.

"Clary?"

"Simon!" His best friend greeted him cheerfully. "How would you like to go to a poetry reading?"

Simon pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Then put it back. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to repeat that. I could have sworn you invited me to a poetry reading, but that is clearly impossible."

He could hear – feel – Clary's grin. "I know, I know, but I'm going mad in here! I want to go out, but you know my mom doesn't like me going out alone. I have to go with you~."

Clary's mother was a quiet, timid woman with an unexpected stubborn streak. Raised on her grandmother's stories of the Holocaust, she was a touch overprotective at times. Especially with Clary, who had a habit of not thinking twice where her own safety was concerned. "So you want to go to a _poetry reading?_"

"Well, no," she admitted. "Not if you have a better idea. It's just, Eric mentioned it last night, so it was the first idea I had..."

That sounded...plausible, but also appalling. All of Millennium Lint was grateful that Eric had no pretensions to song writing, but he did insist on attempting to massacre every poetic form he came across. "What about a simple coffee instead?" Simon counter-offered, somewhat desperately.

"Done," Clary laughed. "You're buying."

Simon sighed dramatically. "I don't know why my mom likes you so much," he muttered, hiding a grin even with no one there to see it. "She clearly doesn't realise how much of a menace you are."

"And she never will," Clary said promptly. "Starbucks at two?"

"If I'm buying, it's Java Jones at half one," Simon parried, searching for his socks.

"No one likes a thrifty rockstar, Simon," Clary told him, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh. "I'll see you there."

"See you," he mumbled. Something that had been slowly bubbling at the back of his mind had just clicked.

Abandoning _the Quest for the Missing Socks_, Simon left his bedroom and padded into the sitting room. There was a note waiting on the table – his mom, telling him she was out with Luke – but after a quick glance he made a beeline for the bookshelf. Evidence of his mother's artistic temperament were everywhere – the paintings on the walls being the most obvious, but there were also the lovingly handmade throw pillows of wine-red velvet, and even a few pieces of glazed pottery on neat little pedestals in the corners of the room – but Simon ignored all of these. He ran his finger over the spines of the books on his mother's shelf.

_The Necessary Beggar...John Saturnall's Feast...Some Kind of Fairytale...Elfland...Not In Kansas Anymore._

Simon pulled the slender book from its place and turned to the index, scanning the neatly arranged entries. The book itself had been a gag gift to his mother from one of her artist friends a few years ago, and Simon had read it, just as he read everything in the house. And he had a niggling feeling of something half-remembered...

His finger paused as it trailed down the page. _Mundies._

He'd _known_ he'd heard that word somewhere before!

Eagerly he flipped to the appropriate page and scanned it, hoping for some kind of explanation (although he didn't remember anything about tattooed, black-clad monster hunters from his first read through). What he got was nothing like what he'd hoped for.

'_...used by the magical community to refer to non-magicals...'_

He snapped the book shut, annoyed. He knew 'magicals' in this context referred to people like Wiccans and otherkin – people who believed their souls were non-human in some way – but he also knew that Wiccans and otherkin didn't go around killing people with crystal knives. Jace didn't seem like the kind of person who followed the Wiccan rede: 'an it harm none, do what you will'.

He put the book back and frowned at it, and then at the photo over the mantelpiece. A thoughtful-looking blonde man looked back at him, pristine in his military uniform: his father. Simon had always liked the picture, appreciating the tiny details that hinted at a wider story, like the laugh lines around the man's mouth and eyes, but sometimes, like now, he wished he had more than a few medals in a box of the man who'd fathered him. It would have been nice to have an adult to turn to with questions his mother wouldn't – or couldn't, he allowed – answer.

A box carved with the initials J.C., and inside, a lock of hair and some medals. Not much to go on, when Jocelyn refused to talk about the man. But he must have been something special. He'd died just before Simon was born, but his mother still cried over the box once a year, when she thought Simon was asleep.

Not that thinking of the might-have-beens would help in any way with solving the mystery of the – what had Blue Hair called them? _Shadowhunters_; that was it.

With a name like that, maybe they're just a live-action roleplaying group, his brain suggested helpfully.

Except that roleplaying didn't make people disappear. With a sigh, Simon was headed for his room to get dressed for Java Jones when the sound of the key in the lock made him pause.

The door opened heavily, revealing Luke as the bearer of a great many flattened cardboard boxes.

"Need some help?" Simon asked, moving forward automatically.

Luke lowered them with a thump. "No, thanks, Simon." He straightened. "Whew, they were heavier than I thought they'd be."

"Aren't they always?" Simon craned to look around Luke. "Where's mom?"

"Parking the truck," Luke answered, pressing his hands to his lower spine with a groan. He was dressed in his signature outfit: jeans worn soft with age, a flannel shirt, and a slightly crooked pair of gold-rimmed glasses. "Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"

Simon just grinned at him. "What are the boxes for?"

Luke's joking expression faded. "Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding Simon's gaze.

Simon felt the same plummeting sensation he had when Jace had said _he knows too much_. "What things?"

Luke made a dismissive gesture. "Extra stuff lying around. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So, what are you up to? Studying?"

Simon shook his head. "Going out to meet Clary. I was just going to get dressed..."

Luke nodded. "Go ahead. Never let it be said I get in the way of teen romance." He grinned as Simon rolled his eyes, and went to rummage in the toolkit by the hearth.

The movement brought Luke close to the photograph above the mantle, and Simon paused in the doorway, struck by a thought. He didn't have a father around, but here was a grown man, delivered up as if in answer to his idle prayer... "Luke?"

"Mmhm? Ah, here we go." Luke pulled out an orange plastic tape gun with an expression of deep satisfaction.

Simon licked his lips. "Um, what would you do, if you saw something nobody else could see?"

The tape gun fell from Luke's hand with a clatter: Simon jumped. Luke knelt down to pick it up without looking Simon's way. "If I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?" he asked carefully.

"No – well, not exactly," Simon amended, thinking of that knife, and the blood. The black ichor that still stained his shirt sleeves, now buried at the bottom of his laundry basket. "I mean – if you saw something, and it was invisible to everyone except you." He glanced back at _Not In Kansas_ and thought of magicals. "Like second sight," he added helpfully.

Luke spun around as if Simon had punched him. "Like _what?_"

Simon flinched back. "Like – second sight? It's this thing – "

"I know what it is," Luke said harshly. His eyes suddenly seemed very blue behind his glasses. The colour vanished as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he looked at Simon again, he seemed calmer, but Simon still felt shaken. "Played any good fantasy games lately?" he asked, too casually. Too – _pointedly_.

Before Simon could answer, the door opened and his mother strode into the room, a few strands of her long red hair escaping its knot as she handed Luke a set of keys. With a questioning eyebrow, she turned to look at Simon.

When Simon was six years old, his teacher had asked the class who their idols were. After having the word explained to them, most of the children had named superheroes or cartoon characters. Simon proudly declared that his mother was his, and eleven years later that was still true. Jocelyn Fray was built like a real superheroine – not blonde and busty but compact and solid, with a cool composure that said she could handle whatever the world threw at her.

Simon didn't have that composure – or his mother's red hair, or her bone structure; in fact, he didn't look like her at all, _or_ like his father's photograph. Jocelyn claimed that Simon took after his grandfather, but since the man had apparently died before Simon was born – leaving behind a complete absence of photographs – Simon had no way to verify that. But he had Jocelyn's willowy height, and he was grateful for that much.

"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," his mother said to Luke. She smiled, but Luke didn't return it. Simon's uneasiness increased. "Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people in the park today – "

"Mom?" Simon interrupted. He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the sweating of his palms. "Why do you have all these boxes?"

Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes towards Simon, silently pushing Jocelyn forward. With a nervous smile, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear, and took a seat on the couch. "We're going on vacation."

All expression vanished from Luke's face, like a blackboard wiped clean.

Simon frowned. He looked from Luke's mask to Jocelyn, and felt the pieces slide into place. "You mean me, too," he realised.

"Yes." Jocelyn watched him closely. "We're going to the farmhouse – you, me, and Luke."

"Okay..." Simon glanced back at Luke, but Luke's jaw had gone tight and he was glaring out the window, as if the pigeons had personally offended him. Simon felt his heart sink. "For how long?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"For the rest of the summer," his mother answered. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, DVDs, your laptop – "

"The _rest of the summer?_"Simon interrupted, trying not to gape. "But – but why?" This wasn't like Jocelyn, to spring something like this on him, without any debate or discussion. "I have plans – I have band practise! We did so well last night, mom, you have no idea, I can't duck out on the guys now!"

"They'll understand," Jocelyn said implacably.

Simon ran his hand through his hair. "Mom, it doesn't work like that – Millennium Lint made a splash last night, but we have to keep up with it – if we vanish from the scene now, all our work will be for nothing. We'll have to start from scratch." He swallowed past the angry hurt in his throat. "That's not fair."

Jocelyn sucked in a breath. "I have to get away, Simon," she said after a pause. The corners of her mouth trembled a little, and suddenly Simon saw the dark circles under her eyes, realised that she looked paler than usual. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now – "

Simon bit down on the angry words burning his tongue. He so desperately wanted to rail and shout, but that wouldn't do any good, and it wasn't fair on his mom when she clearly wasn't feeling well. "Can't you sell some of dad's stocks?" he asked, carefully keeping his voice calm and reasonable. That was what she usually did when they needed money. "Or – you know, I'm seventeen now. I'm old enough to take care of myself." He watched her carefully for her reaction. "I could get a job at Java Jones or something – "

"_No!"_

Simon flinched back from the sharpness in Jocelyn's voice, shocked. "But – "

"Simon, I know you are wonderfully responsible and mature for your age, but you are absolutely not living on your own for the rest of the summer! Anything could happen!" Jocelyn shook her head fiercely. "I'm sorry about the band. But you are coming with us; it isn't optional."

Luke knocked over one of the framed pictures with a crash, and Simon and his mom both jumped. Looking embarrassed and upset, Luke knelt to straighten it back against the wall. When he stood up, his face was set and hard. "I'm leaving."

Jocelyn rose from the sofa. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Clenching his hands into fists in the sitting room, Simon could just hear his mother's urgent whisper. "...Bane," Jocelyn was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he's in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"

Bane? Who was Bane? Simon had never heard her mention any friend with that name, or friends who took exotic trips – friends who had the _money_ for exotic trips. Most of Jocelyn's circle were artists, and nearly always strapped for cash.

"Jocelyn." Luke's voice. "You can't keep going to him forever."

"But Simon –"

"Isn't Jonathan," Luke hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Simon _isn't Jonathan_."

What did Simon's father have to do with anything?

"I can't keep him at home, not let him go out. He's seventeen, he won't put up with it."

"Of course he won't!" Luke sounded half a breath away from furious. "He's not a pet, he's a teenager! Almost an adult!"

"If we were out of the city..."

"Talk to him, Jocelyn." Luke's voice was steely. "I mean it."

Simon heard the door open, and then his mother screamed.

He ran into the hallway, but it was just Clary, standing shocked and pale in the doorway.

"Is everything okay?" she asked hesitantly, clutching her handbag tightly.

Simon swallowed. "Yeah, it's fine," he said quickly, sparing Jocelyn having to find an explanation. "I thought I was going to meet you at Java?"

Clary shrugged. She was still frowning at Jocelyn. "I thought I'd walk over. Are you sure nothing's wrong? We could reschedule..."

"No, it's fine," Simon repeated. "Just – let me grab my wallet, I'll be right back, okay? Don't move." He ran back to his room and snatched up the black leather wallet Luke had given him two birthdays ago, and shoved on his sneakers.

Jocelyn bit her lip when he returned. "Simon, don't you think we should talk about this?"

Just once, Simon would like to feel the release of being a typical teenager – the kind of person who could spit out hateful words like throwing up poison. Instead he swallowed the venom and felt it burn in his gut. "No, it's okay," he said calmly, shrugging like it was no big deal. "There's nothing to talk about, right? I'll pack when I come home."

Jocelyn's relieved, tired smile made him feel guilty for even thinking about saying something nasty to her. He closed the door behind him quickly, and headed for the stairs so fast Clary had to jog to catch up with him.

"What the hell was all that about?" she demanded.

Simon sighed. "I'll tell you in the van," he said miserably. "I just want a few minutes not to have to think about it first."

Clary gave him a weird look, but for once Simon couldn't make himself care.

The brownstone where Simon and his mom lived had once upon a time housed a single ridiculously wealthy family. It was still vaguely recognisable as once having been something grand: the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the single-paned skylight flooding the space with light all contributed to the illusion that Simon was a prince in hiding. But now the house was split into apartments, and as Simon and Clary moved down the stairs he glanced at the door of the downstairs tenant, one MADAME DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS, as announced by the gold plaque on her door.

As they reached the foyer the plaque-bearing door swung open, spilling out the thick scent of sweet incense that always made Simon think of pagan temples. A man stepped out amidst the cloud – and Simon blinked behind his glasses, because the guy was _gorgeous_; all maple-syrup skin and tangled black hair. He grinned at Simon, gold-green eyes gleaming – a cat's eyes, bright and slitted.

Simon felt dizzy, and clutched at the stair rail as he stumbled, wondering if he was about to faint.

_No_, he told himself firmly. _I refuse to be the damsel here. Only serious Twihards swoon when a pretty guy smiles at them._

Clary peered at him. "Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine."

The green-eyed man was gone.

)0(

"I just – I can't believe she's doing this," Simon said miserably, shredding his chocolate éclair into little pieces. "Not _now_. Last night was Lint's first big appearance; people are going to be talking about us. We're supposed to start performing more, maybe build a website where people can download our songs, make sure people know our name." He slumped in his chair. "Now we're going to vanish, and you can't come back after vanishing. Not when you're as new as we are."

"It's incredibly unfair," Clary agreed. "Maybe I should have recorded your performance last night, so she could see. Has she heard you guys play yet?"

"No. What does that matter?"

"_Well_," Clary said patiently, "Maybe if she realised how good you guys are, and how much you care about it, she'd reconsider."

Simon ate a piece of éclair, thinking it over. "Maybe," he said doubtfully. He didn't see how Jocelyn could have missed how much he cared about Millennium Lint, but it was true his mom had no idea they were more than just your usual (read: terrible) basement band. Maybe if she knew that, she would see they had a real shot at something bigger – but only if Simon could stick around now.

And he didn't think Jocelyn would change her mind.

"Do you want another coffee?" he asked.

"Sure." Clary was playing with her phone. "Make it black."

The coffee shop was crowded for a Sunday; most of the worn-looking couches and armchairs were taken up by Simon and Clary's fellow teenagers. The smell of coffee and clove cigarettes – yuck – was overwhelming, and as Simon gave their orders to the barista behind the counter he was reminded of the incense from Madame Dorothea's.

_People don't just disappear,_ he told himself. But neither did it seem likely that he had somehow missed the man walking away – he would have had to walk right past Simon and Clary, there in the foyer. _And those eyes..._

_Was _there mental illness in his family history? Was that why Jocelyn was so worried, so intent on whisking Simon away from the city? But that didn't make sense either; if he was developing some kind of disorder, he should be seeing a doctor for an evaluation, not relaxing in the countryside. And what about Luke's weird reaction when Simon had tried to tell him about it?

Someone coughed loudly, too loudly – and too obviously faked – for Simon not to glance towards the sound.

Sitting on a faded green sofa a few feet away was Jace, and Simon's heart nearly stopped, because he'd been on the way to convincing himself that the whole of last night was the beginning of a very epic but depressing mental breakdown, and now Jace was sitting here, in Java, because _what is my life?_

The blonde was wearing the same dark clothes he'd been wearing last night, which was skeevy but not as bad as the pale lines of scar tissue winding back and forth across his arms. Simon immediately remembered Emma Barnes, who had been taken out of school last year when someone realised she was cutting herself between classes. But the marks didn't look like they'd been wrought by razors. His wrists flashed wide metal cuffs that were almost vambraces; the pale hilt of a knife was just visible beneath the left one. And he was looking right at Simon with that same disturbing intensity from the night before.

"For the record, I am not a Twihard," Simon said firmly. "Which means I do not classify stalking as flattering behaviour. It's just creepy."

Jace raised a single eyebrow, which was a skill Simon had once spent four months trying to learn and coveted jealously. "Who says I'm stalking you?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "What am I thinking: of course monster hunters need coffee too." He looked pointedly around at Jace's complete lack of food and drink. "What is this about?" It was much easier to be casual here, now, surrounded by the smell of coffee and baked goods, and the sound of easy, sane, _normal_ conversations. Jace didn't seem so terrifying, here in a coffee shop, instead of in the dark, covered in monster blood.

Instead of answering, Jace uncoiled from the sofa as gracefully as a cat, and like a cat just as carelessly about what that grace made him look like; lean and lithe and dangerous. Simon remembered how Jace had swung his knife into Blue Hair, and how _quickly_; he had reacted before Simon had managed to blink.

Which was why he called himself ten kinds of idiot when he realised he was following Jace outside.

_This is really, REALLY stupid. Catastrophically stupid. Anakin trusting Palpatine stupid!_

"I should call the police," he said aloud, testingly.

"And tell them what?" Jace asked witheringly. "That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little boy, the police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see."

"My name is _Simon_," Simon snapped. He could feel his cheeks flushing. That 'little boy' might have featured in some of his weirder dreams last night. "But seriously; why can't people see you? Is it a force field or something?"

Jace's gold eyes shone with something unreadable. "You don't know much, do you?" he asked consideringly. "You seem to be a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It's a conundrum."

"Yeah, about that. You called me _mundie_ last night, and I know what that means." Simon suppressed the little thrill of smug pleasure he felt as Jace's eyebrows went up. "It's what witches sometimes call non-witches. Like muggles, but not because that would be copyright infringement. Maybe." He wasn't well-versed in copyright law. "Which makes Shadowhunters...what? Witches?"

"No," Jace said.

Simon frowned and considered. "But you're human."

"Not like you." There was no defensiveness in his tone; Simon even thought he detected a slight hint of amusement, as if watching Simon guess and deduce was fun for him.

Arrogant bastard.

"So human, but with extra. Mutants?"

Jace shook his head. "Hodge thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don't know it."

"I thought we'd established that I don't know anything?" Then the rest of Jace's declaration struck him. "_I'm _dangerous? Are you kidding? I did okay against Kil'jaeden but I somehow doubt I have the hit points for what you're talking about."

Jace frowned at him. "What's a Kil'jaeden?"

Simon made a dismissive gesture. "He's a demon, it doesn't matter – "

"_You fought a demon?_"

Simon groaned. "It's a game, okay, it's – _not a real demon_," and he told himself it didn't sting to see the amazed, impressed look fade from Jace's face. "Let's examine this rationally, please. You," he pointed his finger at Jace's chest, "are some kind of monster hunter, whom no one else can see," and right there the whole concept of rationality flew out the window, but Simon ignored that part. "How do I know I'm not just hallucinating you? That seems far more likely than the existence of invisible Winchester copycats."

"I could hurt you," Jace suggested. Too quickly for Simon to see how he did it, he had the knife from his bracelet in his hand; not crystalline this time, but a simpler thing of polished steel, with a handle that might have been ivory or bone. "That would prove I'm real."

Simon gulped. "Clearly you haven't seen _The Matrix_, illusion can absolutely hurt you, can you please put the knife away now? The knife is not making me happy."

With a roll of his eyes, Jace jabbed the knife back into its sheath. "If I can't hurt you, how am I supposed to prove anything?"

"I'll just take your word for it," Simon decided. "If I'm not hallucinating, then you're probably not deluded, because I saw Blue Hair – "

"Blue Hair?" Jace echoed.

"The – " _guy, boy, kid_ "creature you killed last night."

Jace's expression brightened. "Ah."

"Yes, him. I saw" _his teeth_ "him vanish, which means that _something_ more than normal is going on. Maybe monsters." Simon chewed his lip, then stopped. That was Jocelyn's gesture, not his.

"Give me your right hand," Jace ordered.

"What? Why?" Simon resisted the urge to clutch his hand to his chest protectively.

"Because I'll reconsider not hurting you if you don't," Jace drawled.

Simon stared at him, and then turned around and stalked back towards the cafe.

"Where are you going?" Jace demanded.

"I don't play with bullies," Simon tossed over his shoulder, shoving his hands into his pockets so Jace wouldn't see them shake. He told himself it was anger making them tremble, not fear of what this knife-wielding boy could do to his unprotected back.

He'd almost reached Java's door when a hand fell on his shoulder. He froze, but Jace's voice, when it came, wasn't angry or threatening.

"I'm sorry, that was out of line." From their brief acquaintance, Simon would have said that Jace had never said 'I'm sorry' in his life, but the blonde sounded genuinely apologetic. "Could you please show me your hand? It would help me work out what you are."

Simon turned back around and held his palm out, wordlessly. Jace took it and turned it over, examining Simon's pale skin, the fine hair on the back of his hand. The touch was startling, not in any romantic sense but because this was a stranger; Simon could count on the fingers of one hand the people he had any kind of regular physical contact with.

"Nothing," Jace said, letting Simon's hand fall. He sounded – disappointed? "You're not left-handed, are you?"

Simon shook his head. "Why?"

"Most Shadowhunter children get Marked on their right hands – or left, if they're left-handed, like I am – when they're still young. It's a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons." He showed Simon the swirling black eye on the back of his left hand.

"Like the kanji on Jiraya's fingers," Simon murmured, peering at it.

"What?"

"It's a scene in _Naruto_," Simon explained absently. "But the symbols there are more like a signal that magic is being done. You're saying your runes _are_ magical?"

"Marks," Jace corrected. "Different Marks do different things. Some are permanent, but the majority vanish when they've been used."

"These ones," Simon gestured to the symbols on Jace's arms, "are permanent? What do they all do?"

But Jace shook his head. "They're temporary. I carved them in this morning."

Simon blinked. "Why?"

Jace shrugged. "In case you were dangerous," he said blithely. "You have the Sight, clearly." He seemed pleased about that. "I wasn't sure what you were. Are."

And they were back to that.

Jace looked up at the sky before Simon could think up any more questions. "Time to go," he announced cheerfully.

Simon felt a flash of déjà vu; it was like Jocelyn's announcement all over again. "We have not yet established that I am going anywhere with you," he said firmly.

"_You_ haven't," Jace corrected him. "_I_ have orders. Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with me. He wants to talk to you."

Simon glared. "Allow me to rephrase that: I have no intention of going anywhere with you."

Jace raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly around the alley, as if to say _you already did_.

Simon rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. "Why would I go anywhere with you?"

"Because you know the truth now," Jace said promptly. "There hasn't been a mundane who knew about us for at least a hundred years."

Simon quietly registered that _us_, but didn't feel up to knowing just how many Shadowhunters there were yet. Partly because his mind derailed a little bit at the way Jace said _mundane_. It sounded much better than _mundie_.

"You can come willingly or unwillingly," Jace added.

"I will scream like a little girl if you try and kidnap me anywhere," Simon warned. "High and hysterical. Everyone will come running."

Jace snorted. It was an endearing sound, so that Simon had to suppress a grin, despite the seriousness of being threatened with kidnapping.

"I want to go home first," Simon said slowly, thinking it through. "I left my phone there, and I want it if I'm going anywhere with you."

"That's fair," Jace allowed. He even looked approving. Simon supposed that monster hunters _would_ approve of safety measures of all kinds. "How far away is home?"

* * *

The song lyrics from the beginning of this chapter are from the song _I'm in Love (With a Killer)_ by Jeffree Star.

Neil Cuddahy is a character from the comics _Mutant X_ who can go without sleep.

The books on Jocelyn's shelf are all focussed on the theme of being a magical outcast among 'mundane' people.

Finally, the word 'mundie' is used in Christine Wicker's book _Not in Kansas Anymore_, which was published in 2005, two years before _City of Bones_ was published in 2007. The quote mentioned is not a direct quote, though, because I don't have access to my copy of the book just now. But the word 'mundie' was definitely around before Cassandra Clare.


	3. Chapter 3

Later, Simon did not remember what he told Clary to make up for abandoning her at Java. It was unlike him, that; usually he cherished every minute he got to spend in her company, silently wishing he had the balls to be honest about his feelings. But now, with Jace hovering invisibly just a few feet away while he babbled something about the trip to the farmhouse and having to pack, Simon was too – too _excited_ to feel bad about the missed opportunity. The heart-stopping terror of the night before was fading, dissolving into interest, into thrilling newness, like unlocking the fourth tier level in Diablo 3.

Only better, because this was real.

(Also scarier, because this was _real_).

Jace said nothing about the van as he climbed into it, but his eyebrows spoke volumes. Simon ignored the encyclopaedias encoded there in favour of asking another question. "So what else is there, aside from Shadowhunters?" He manfully kept a straight face as he added "You mentioned something about vampires, last night."

Jace shot him a look, and Simon carefully didn't grin. "Downworlders and demons," Jace said finally.

"They're not the same? Because 'Downworlder' sounds like something from Hell." Simon glanced at Jace's frown. "You know – down world? That sounds like either a realm under the earth – Hell – or Australia."

Jace rolled his eyes. "Downworlders are not demons. They're the magical folk of this dimension – the fey, warlocks, werewolves." He gave Simon another look. "_Night Children._"

"_Vampires_," Simon parried cheerfully. " 'Night Children' is so pretentious, don't you think?"

To his surprise, Jace nodded, allowing the point. "Demons are malevolent spirits whose origin is outside our own home dimension."

"Other _dimensions?_ Those _exist_?!"

"Of course they do." The _duh _was so heavily implied Jace might as well have said it, but Simon barely noticed. Other _dimensions_. This was much, much bigger than discovering that Earth had all kinds of hidden creepy crawlies; that was a shock, but not a complete stretch. Most people acknowledged that humanity didn't know everything about their world yet.

But other dimensions? Other _worlds?_ That was _huge_; that had so many implications and ramifications that Simon's head felt like a hive of pissed off bees, buzzing so loudly he couldn't hear himself think.

"Can we go there?" he asked quickly. "Is it possible to visit?"

"Why would you want to?" Jace sounded honestly baffled. Simon resisted the urge to flail, because he was driving and flailing was not an appropriate driving technique.

"Why would you – because! Other species! Thinking, talking species! It's like aliens, who doesn't love aliens? And, and other worlds! Do they have culture? Civilisation? Oh my God, are there alien civilisations?"

Jace's eyebrows were very clearly saying _what is wrong with you and is it contagious?_ "I wouldn't know," he said slowly. "The only _demons_," he stressed the word, "I've ever met are ones that try to kill me."

Simon made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You have a very caustic personality, clearly you rub the aliens the wrong way."

Jace raised his eyebrows _yet again_, and Simon realised what he'd just said. His cheeks warmed, and he wished, intensely, that it was possible to kick yourself while driving.

"They are not aliens," Jace said after a few minutes of horribly awkward silence. "They're _demons_. Not friendly green Martians. Don't idealise them." He folded his arms and stared out the window. "Anyway, Hodge will explain all this to you at the Institute."

"Who's Hodge?" Simon asked half-heartedly.

"My tutor."

The rest of the drive was silent, until Simon pulled in by the house. "I'll just run up and grab my phone – do you want to come in?" Simon asked, realising that it was a bit rude to just leave Jace in the car. Especially when it was so hot: the van didn't have great air conditioning, and without the engine running he wouldn't have left a dog in there. Not that Jace was a dog, but...

Jace looked like he was going to refuse, so it surprised Simon when he shrugged and acquiesced.

Inside, the foyer was cool and quiet. "It's, um, I'm upstairs," Simon said, suddenly unaccountably nervous to have Jace see where he lived. What were Shadowhunter homes like? Probably not tiny run-down apartments. And now he that thought about it, his room wasn't too tidy either.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Jace's knife was in his hand by the time Simon spun around. Madame Dorothea was sitting in an armchair she – or someone, because she didn't look as though she could have carried it there – had moved in front of her door. The older woman was wedged into it tightly, fanning herself with a white lace fan. "Your mother," Dorothea said, "has been making a god-awful racket up there. What's she doing? Moving furniture?" She peered at Jace. "Greetings, Shadowhunter."

Simon gaped at her. "You can see him?"

Dorothea frowned. "Of course I can see him, you nitwit."

"But you're a _mundane_," Jace protested.

"Really?" Simon asked. "Aren't you getting a little tired of saying that?"

Jace glared at him.

Dorothea waved her hand. "Run along now," she ordered. "And you," she pointed her fan at Simon, "You tell that mother of yours to get her boyfriend to change that stairwell light."

For the first time, Simon realised that the light had burned out. "Okay, Miss Dorothea." He had long since given up explaining that Luke was not his mother's boyfriend, and had no responsibility to grout Dorothea's shower or pick up her groceries.

Jace was still frowning at the seeress when Simon gestured him up the stairs. "Who is she?" he demanded.

Simon shrugged, fumbling with his keys. "She does tarot readings, that's all I know. She's a friend of my mom's." He pushed his key into the door, but it swung open before he could turn it.

The door was unlocked.

"Something wrong?" Jace asked.

"I don't know," Simon said slowly.

Jocelyn's keys and pink handbag were on the small wrought-iron shelf by the door, where she always left them. "Mom?" Simon called. "Why'd you leave the door unlocked?"

There was no answer, and a strange nervousness began to curl down Simon's spine. "Mom? I'm home."

Instead of going straight to his bedroom he went into the living room, looking for Jocelyn. The windows were open, which would have meant his mother was painting, but Jocelyn had never thrown the sofa cushions all over the room, or torn them open. She had never tipped over the bookcase, never knocked the piano stool onto its side. She would _never _have ripped up her books of sheet music, lying in shreds near the gaping-open stool. Jocelyn _loved_ those books.

Simon stood frozen in the doorway, unable to take it all in. When he saw that his mother's paintings had been slashed from their frames and torn into strips, he actually cried out, unable to stifle the shock and pain of seeing the beautiful pictures destroyed.

Abruptly Jace was beside him. He still had his knife in hand. "What happened here?"

"I don't – I don't know – " Simon clenched his hands in his hair. "Oh God, my mom!" He spun around and ran from room to room, ignoring Jace's warning. "Mom! _Mom!_"

His room was untouched. So was Jocelyn's – the handmade quilt was still folded carefully on the duvet; a younger Simon smiled back at him from the bedside table. But the kitchen was a mess, bottles and cartons broken all over the floor, the cabinet doors left open or torn off, and none of it made any _sense_. Simon stood in the doorway and just stared at it, feeling the word spin off its axis, feeling fire and bile and pain clog his throat, blur his vision. _Where's my mom?_

Something heavy hit the floor with a dull thud. Simon assumed it was Jace and barely registered it – although that made no sense, Jace was too obviously graceful to knock things over – but his ears caught the dragging, slithering noise that followed and drew a question mark on the inside of his brain.

More confused than afraid, he turned around.

It was crouched against the floor, a long, scaled creature with a cluster of flat black eyes set dead centre in the front of its domed skull. Something like the illegitimate child of an alligator and a centipede. It had too many legs and a horrible thick, flat snout, and Simon froze, too stunned to scream as it readied itself to spring.

He _did_ scream as something crashed into him, but it was Jace, not the – not the _thing_, which leapt into the space Simon had occupied a half second previously.

"_What is that thing?!_" Simon shouted. Jace, sensibly, ignored him and rolled to his feet, snarling "Sanvi!" The slender tube that had appeared in his hand suddenly snapped itself longer, like one of those crazy sword-in-a-walking-stick things, and Jace lunged at the monster with it.

Simon scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding with terror. Only the most inane of instincts made him pick up Jace's phone from where he had dropped it, thinking wildly that the Shadowhunter wouldn't want it crushed underfoot.

"_Shadowhunter_," the thing hissed. It was on the line were the kitchen wall met the ceiling, twitching, and just the sight of it made Simon want to be sick. "_Valentine said nothing of Shadowhunters here – "_

"All of you talking about Valentine," Jace drawled. "You need to get some new material."

Simon, pressed into a corner, flinched at the sight of the thing's black tongue, flickering in and out like a lizard's. _"Stupid Shadowhunter. Not here for you. Here for boy – " _Oh _God_ it was looking at Simon, licking its lips, and he took it back, he did, he was happy when all the adventures were on the Playstation could they just go back to that _please_ –

"Simon," Jace said carefully, never taking his eyes from the monster, "You need to leave. Go downstairs, go out to the van and wait for me there – "

"_Noooooooo!_" The thing howled. _"Mine! My flesh! My blood to eat, oh, to eat!_" It skittered across the ceiling, still saying those horrible things, and God, was this what had happened to his mom, had it – was – had it _killed _her, was she dead, what if it had _eaten her_ and yes, Simon was crying, it was pathetic and he couldn't even pretend that they weren't terror-tears because they were. But lots of them were terror-tears _for his mom_, for the horrible uncertainty of what had happened to her; and some of them were anger tears, _fury_ tears, because this horrible, disgusting _thing_ might have hurt Jocelyn, and Jace was yelling and running but the monster jumped, this freaky rabbit-like jump, and Simon was so unbelievably scared and so unbelievably _angry_.

There was something in his hand and he lashed out with it, wanting to hurt this monster thing, wanting to _destroy _it, but there were tears in his eyes, he couldn't _see_ and the thing's mouth was open and Simon's fist pushed down its throat like hitting a bull's-eye.

He screamed again as its drool burned him like acid and his wrist was sliced open by its shark-like teeth, and wrenched his hand back. He kicked at it desperately, knocking it aside a little, clutching his hand to his chest _(it was bleeding it was burning)_ and Jace –

Jace stabbed his crystal blade through its head just as it started to spasm, as ichor-stained foam poured out of its mouth, and it died.

Instantly Jace was there, his hands on Simon's shoulders, "Ssh, ssh, you're all right, you're okay," and Simon was crying, babbling something about his mom, and his hand was on _fire_. His knees gave out, and he slid down the wall; only Jace's firm grip kept him from tumbling onto the floor. Jace knelt in front of him and gently tugged free Simon's injured hand, careful to grip it below the burns, below the marks of the thing's teeth.

Simon swung at him instinctively with his other hand, but it was so clumsy Jace only tilted his head to avoid it.

"Simon, I need to see the wounds," he said, slowly and clearly. "I can heal them a little, enough to get you to the Institute – "

He was drawing out a slender little wand as he spoke, but Simon didn't notice, didn't _care_. His chest kept heaving, and he couldn't tell if it was the sobbing or if he was trying to be sick; his mom, God his _mom_, and his hand, he had to grit his teeth as Jace touched it so he didn't scream again –

Coolness flowed into and through his wrist, then, such an intense relief that Simon gasped. He blinked away the tears, trying to see what Jace was doing, but a wave of exhaustion followed the cold and then everything went dark.

"Do you think he'll ever wake up? It's been three days already."

"You have to give him time. Demon poison is strong stuff, and he's a mundane. He hasn't got runes to keep him strong like we do."

"Mundies die awfully easily, don't they?"

"Isabelle, you know it's bad luck to talk about death in a sickroom."

_Three days...? _Simon thought blearily. _Why have I been sleeping for three days?_

Then it all came back to him, for a single, screamingly horrible moment, before the dreams swept him under again. Strange dreams, terrible dreams; his mother lying comatose in a hospital bed, bruises under her eyes; Luke standing atop a pile of bones; Clary with crosses burned into her palms. He saw the blue haired demon and the monster from his kitchen.

He saw Jace with white wings extending from his back; Jace with a swipe of demon blood on his cheek like a curve of calligraphy; Jace, holding Simon's shoulders, telling him it was going to be okay.

He saw angels and angels and angels, falling out of the sky.

"I told you it was the same boy."

"I know. Skinny thing, isn't he? Jace said he killed a Ravener."

"He doesn't look like he could take on a Ravener."

"Well, nobody looks their best with demon venom in their veins. Is Hodge going to call on the Brothers?"

"I hope not. They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that – "

"_We_ mutilate ourselves."

"I know that, Alec, but when we do it, it isn't permanent. And it doesn't always hurt..."

"If you're old enough. Speaking of which, where is Jace? He saved the mundie, didn't he? I would have thought he'd take some interest in his recovery."

"Hodge said Jace hasn't been to see him since he brought him in. I guess he doesn't care."

"Sometimes I wonder if he – Look! He moved!"

"I guess he's alive after all." A sigh. "I'll tell Hodge."

Simon's eyelids felt as if someone had threaded tiny anchors onto each of his eyelashes; impossibly heavy and unwilling to move. When he did manage to open them, everything was blurry, and he reached instinctively for his glasses.

That was a mistake. Everything ached, especially his arm, but he had no choice, and felt around clumsily for his glasses. When he found them, everything swung into focus: the linen-sheeted bed, one of several identical beds with metal headboards, and the bizarre ceiling painted with swollen clouds and cherubs trailing golden ribbons.

_What?_

There was a white jug, a glass, and his wallet on the table that had borne his glasses; careful of the weakness in his arms, he poured himself a drink. As he swallowed he carefully considered his memories, and guessed that he was at Jace's mythic Institute. He thought he could hear the faint, ever-present sounds of New York traffic from outside, which relieved him immensely; he'd vaguely wondered if the Institute was going to be in Atlantis or some other improbable location.

"So, you're finally awake," said a dry voice. "Hodge will be pleased. _We_ all thought you'd probably die in your sleep."

Simon turned sharply. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, where she certainly had not been a minute ago. Her inky hair had been bound in two thick braids which fell past her waist, and she had exchanged her white dress for jeans and a blue tank top. Simon expected to see tattoos – Marks – but there were none, only the same pale scars that Jace had.

"Sorry to disappoint." Simon's voice was rough, and despite the drink his throat still felt dry.

Isabelle shrugged. "Hodge said to make sure you drank the potion," she pointed at the pitcher, "but since you just did, I guess that's alright. Well done you."

Simon blinked and glanced nervously at the jug; he hadn't even noticed it had been anything but water.

"You should eat, though," Isabelle added. "You haven't eaten anything for three days."

"I can tell." Now that he was awake, he could feel a painful gnawing sensation in his stomach, a clawing hunger more intense than any he'd felt before. _But then, I've never fasted for three days_, he thought reasonably. "You don't have any horses lying around, do you?"

She grinned at him. "No. But if you keep drinking that," she nodded towards the jug, "The hunger will go away."

Deciding that being drugged at this point wouldn't make much difference, Simon did as he was told. This time, he paid attention, and made a pleased sound: it was delicious, rich and satisfying, although he couldn't name the tastes in it, and despite being water-thin it _felt_ as thick as soup. "What is this?"

"One of Hodge's tisanes. They always work." She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a catlike arch of her back. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here." She saw his confusion. "_Not_ in the infirmary," she said with an eye roll. "In the Institute."

"Oh." Simon's tongue felt thick. "I'm Simon. Fray."

"I know. Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself. He won't stop talking about it," she added.

He blinked. "Um, no. That's not what happened at all – it would have killed me if Jace hadn't – " He only noticed his hands were shaking when the tisane in the cup started trembling. He put it down carefully. "I don't really want to talk about it," he said quietly.

Isabelle shrugged. "Either way, Hodge wants to talk to you." She pointed. "The bathroom's through there. Jace stole some of Alec's clothes for you; they're in there waiting for you."

"What happened to _my_ clothes?" Simon tentatively swung his legs onto the floor, tensed for dizziness. But it didn't come; he no longer felt hungry or light-headed at all. He looked down at the plain, hospital-like pyjamas and felt horribly embarrassed at the thought of something changing him into them.

"They were covered in blood and ichor and Ravener venom. Jace burned them."

"What? That was my favourite shirt!"

Isabelle raised one eyebrow. Could all Shadowhunters do that? " 'You probably don't recognise me without my cloak'?"

Simon crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "I liked it," he muttered rebelliously.

"Well, tough. Go get changed," Isabelle ordered imperiously, and Simon found himself walking – carefully – before he'd decided he would. "And clean up a little. You smell."

She really would make a good dominatrix, he decided.

Alec's clothes did not, sadly, include any t-shirts with humorous slogans on them. In fact, they looked completely ridiculous, and Simon wondered if Jace had deliberately chosen them to make Simon look stupid. The sleeves of the blue t-shirt hung over his wrists, and so dark it made his pale skin look pasty. The cuffs of the slacks had to be rolled up around his ankles, but fit more or less all right. Which was lucky, because Jace had forgotten – as Simon had done on numerous sleepovers when he was younger – to provide socks and underwear.

Simon stood staring at the clothes after his shower, dripping everywhere, and debating whether to just suck it up or confess to Isabelle that he didn't have any boxers.

The thought of her grin made his choice for him, but he wasn't happy about it. Thank God Jace hadn't given him jeans; he shuddered to think of the chafing a zipper would have caused.

He missed his Batman socks fiercely.

When he was dressed, he sat down on the toilet and tried to think logically – which had not become any easier since the last time he'd tried it.

_My mom is missing. _I've_ been missing for three days. Luke, Clary and the guys are all going to be worried about me. _He would have to call them; more, he would have to come up with an explanation. A good one.

He had no idea what constituted a good explanation for vanishing for three days.

Isabelle was gone when he eventually left the bathroom. It appeared that Jace had deemed Simon's sneakers worthy of survival, because they hadn't been burned: he found them at the foot of his bed, his keys tied helpfully to the laces.

When he sat down to put them on, he found his phone in the right shoe.

For a moment, Simon stared at the little device in his hand and fought the urge to start crying. The tiny kindness was overwhelming; after everything, after s_aving Simon's life_, Jace had still thought to grab Simon's phone for him.

Simon curled his fingers around it, sucked in a breath, and carefully put it in his pocket. He didn't have an explanation yet. When he did, he would call everyone.

He left the room in search of Isabelle or the mysterious Hodge.


	4. Chapter 4

The corridor outside the infirmary was as empty as ghost town, which was exactly what Simon thought of as he wandered through the building helplessly, without seeing anyone. Glass lamps shaped like roses lit the corridors, but they were dusty, and the Victorian-esque wallpaper was faded. The place smelled thickly of dust and candle wax. He wondered if this was what the Beast's castle smelt like before Belle turned up.

Suddenly Simon realised he could hear something, and he walked towards the sound eagerly. He passed dozens of closed doors before he recognised the sound as that of a piano, and then he had to stop for a moment as memories of his mother's playing spiked painfully between his ribs.

This person wasn't quite as skilled as Jocelyn, but they came close. Simon didn't recognise the tune at all, but he was in a building that housed monster killers; at this point, he would have been surprised if he _had_ known the song.

Turning a corner, Simon came to an open doorway; the first that wasn't locked tight. He put his hand on the doorframe but didn't enter what was clearly a music room; a small cluster of instruments occupying the half of the large room that wasn't filled with chairs for an audience.

Jace was seated at a grand piano while his quick, slender hands danced over the keys. His grey t-shirt revealed toned arms that were bare of Marks today, and beneath his jeans he was barefoot. He looked as though he'd woken up even later than Simon; his hair was all mussed up, but what looked like bed head on Simon was just ridiculously sexy on Jace, as if some hair stylist had spent hours getting the perfect look for a photo shoot. Watching Jace's hands moving over the instrument, Simon remembered those fingers holding his shoulders, keeping him from falling apart.

Simon must have made some kind of noise; Jace stopped playing and peered into the shadows. "Alec? Is that you?"

Simon's mouth went dry. "No," he managed. "It's Simon." A little nervously he stepped into the room where Jace could see him.

Something strange flashed across Jace's face, there and gone too quickly for Simon to interpret it. He was getting used to that. "Our very own Sleeping Beauty," Jace said, looking back down at the keys. "Who finally kissed you awake?"

Simon blinked. There was something strange in Jace's voice. Jace must have heard it as well because he continued quickly before Simon could reply. "Was there anyone with you?"

"Isabelle. But she disappeared on me. Probably to get the mysterious Hodge you all keep talking about." Simon put his hands in his pockets, and closed his fingers around the hard shape of his phone, which reminded him. "Thanks," he said quietly, awkwardly. "For – you know. Earlier."

Jace made a dismissive gesture. "Don't mention it. It's what we do." He slid the gleaming piano lid closed. "Come on, I'll take you to Hodge."

)0(

Simon had already surmised that that Institute was huge, but he hadn't realised just _how_ huge until Jace led him deeper into the maze. They passed half-open doors through which Simon glimpsed identical small rooms that reminded him of a hostel – bed, nightstand, open wardrobe – and beneath ceilings held up by pale arches of stone, most of them carved with esoteric figures and symbols. Simon began to feel as if he'd stumbled into an underground drow city.

"This is more than just a research institute, isn't it?" Simon said aloud. He spotted his fourteenth angel-and-sword combination in as many steps. "All the bedrooms. Who stays here?"

"This is the residential wing," Jace explained. "We're pledged to offer safety and lodging to any Shadowhunter who requests it. We can house up to two hundred people here."

That _we_. "Do you live here like Isabelle?"

Jace nodded. "And her brother Alec. And Hodge, of course."

"Of course," Simon echoed. "But all of these rooms are empty."

Jace shrugged. "People come and go. Nobody stays for long. Usually it's just us – Alec, Isabelle, Max, their parents. Me and Hodge."

"Max?"

"Isabelle's younger brother. He's overseas with their parents."

"On vacation?"

"Not exactly." Jace paused. "You can think of them as – as foreign diplomats, and of this as an embassy, of sorts. Right now they're in the Shadowhunter home country, working out some very delicate peace negotiations. They brought Max with them because he's so young."

"Back up a second," Simon ordered. "Shadowhunter home country? You people have _your own country_?"

"It's called Idris."

Simon frowned. "I've never heard of it," he declared.

"You wouldn't have." That maddening arrogance was back in Jace's voice again. "Mundanes don't know about it. There are wardings – protective spells – "

"I know what wards are," Simon muttered.

Jace ignored him. " – up all over the borders. If you tried to cross into Idris, you'd simply find yourself transported instantly from one border to the next. You'd never know what happened."

Simon's head was spinning. "That is the best security system ever," he breathed. "So – Idris isn't on any maps, then?"

"Not mundie ones." That word again. "For our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France."

Simon pondered this. "I want to see your maps," he decided, because the thought of an invisible country was even cooler than invisible monster hunters. "Have you been there? To Idris, I mean."

"I grew up there."

Jace's voice was so neutral Simon knew instantly that he'd stepped on a mine, and asked no more questions. But Jace kept talking anyway. "Most of us do. There are, of course, Shadowhunters all over the world. We have to be everywhere, because demonic activity is everywhere. But to a Shadowhunter, Idris is always home."

"So, kind of like Hogwarts?" Simon guessed. "You're raised and trained there, and then – no, that's a really bad comparison, sorry."

Jace frowned confusedly at him, then continued as if Simon hadn't spoken. "We're sent where we're needed. And there are a few, like Isabelle and Alec, who grow up away from Idris because that's where their parents are. With all the resources of the Institute here, with Hodge's training – " He broke off. "This is the library."

They had stopped in front of an arch-shaped set of wooden doors. A Persian cat – the kind of grey Simon had heard called blue, although he couldn't imagine why – lay curled in front of them. It raised its head and yowled at them.

"Hey, Church," Jace said, stroking the cat's back with his bare foot. The cat slit its yellow eyes in pleasure.

Simon frowned as something occurred to him. "Hang on, so Alec and Isabelle, and Max are the only Shadowhunters your age that you know? Doesn't that get lonely?"

Jace stopped stroking the cat. "I have everything I need." He pushed the doors open and went inside.

Simon hesitated a moment before following him in.

He was glad that he did: the room inside was _beautiful_, circular like the inside of a tower with a peaked ceiling that stretched far above his head. Shelves so high that ladders were in place to reach them were lined with books, more than Simon had ever seen before – and not ordinary books, either. It was like a wizard's library, like how he'd imagined the library at Hogwarts: books with locks keeping their covers of leather and velvet tightly closed, books whose covers were set with glittering gemstones, books whose opened pages revealed gold script and rainbow illuminations. And they were clearly loved; despite the need for a good clean in the rest of the building Simon couldn't spot one speck of dust anywhere on these books, or on the polished wooden floor.

He looked more closely. There were chips of semiprecious stone and glass set into the floor, in some swirling symbol that Simon guessed was some kind of Mark, but he couldn't see it properly; it was too large. He would have had to have stood near the ceiling to see the whole of it.

When he looked up again, he saw a thin, grey-haired man sitting behind a beautiful oaken desk whose surface was held up by carved angels. They didn't look as though they were happy about their task, but they were incredibly life like.

The man smiled. "A book lover, I see," he said. "You didn't tell me that, Jace."

Jace chuckled, and Simon blinked; the Shadowhunter had come up behind him, and was grinning that maddening grin with his hands in his pockets. Simon glared at him.

"We haven't done much talking during our short acquaintance," Jace said. "I'm afraid our reading habits didn't come up."

"Yes they did," Simon corrected. "I have decided that you clearly don't read, you don't get any of my references." He looked back to the man he assumed was Hodge. "How did you know I love books?"

"The look on your face when you walked in," he said. He stood up and walked around from behind the desk. "Somehow I doubted you were that impressed by _me_." He had a bird on his shoulder, and Simon immediately decided that he liked Hodge; he loved books and he had a pet bird. Clearly a wizard, his brain declared. Hodge was only lacking the beard.

"This is Hugo," Hodge said, gently touching the bird on his shoulder. "He is a raven, and as such, he knows many things. I, however, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly enough."

Simon _loved_ this guy; he grinned widely. "Simon Fray."

"Honoured to make your acquaintance," Hodge said. "I would be honoured to make the acquaintance of anyone who could kill a Ravener with his bare hands."

Simon felt his grin fade, and he turned to shoot Jace another glare. Jace looked entirely unfazed. "That's not what happened," Simon told Hodge, feeling as though he were disappointing the man. "I'm sorry, but it's not. Jace killed it with his sword thing."

"Actually, you did," Jace corrected. "He shoved my Sensor down the thing's throat," he told Hodge. "The runes must have choked it. It was dying _before_ I managed to get Sanvi through its skull."

Simon blinked. _I killed a demon?_ It was sad that yesterday – no, not yesterday, but before all this happened – he would have found that almost unbearably cool. Now he only felt a dull sense of disbelief. It wasn't cool. Demons weren't cool. Demons had probably hurt, maybe even killed, his mom, and that thought hurt so badly he had to bite his lip and focus on his breathing.

This was never going to be cool again.

"Make sure to pick up a spare from the weapons room," Hodge told Jace. To Simon, he said "That was very quick thinking. What gave you the ideas of using the Sensor as a weapon?"

Simon was about to explain that he hadn't, that it had been a complete accident born of panic and adrenalin, but a loud laugh echoed through the room before he could say a word. Simon had been so enraptured by the books, and then Hodge, that he hadn't noticed Alec sprawled in a red armchair over by the fireplace. "I can't believe you buy that story, Hodge," Alec said loudly.

Now that he was seeing Alec in good light, Simon could see his resemblance to Isabelle. Alec had his sister's jet-black hair, the same pale skin – even their eyebrows were the same. But Alec was entirely lacking in Isabelle's confidence; despite his declaration he was slumped in the chair as if he hoped that, now that he had said his piece, they would all go back to ignoring him.

He also looked as though he would quite happily have killed Simon, glaring at him as if he thought he was Scott Summers and could kill Simon with lasers.

Simon raised his eyebrows. After facing down a real live demon, Alec wasn't nearly as scary as he clearly thought he was.

Hey, that would be cool, if Simon wasn't scared of things anymore. He would have to test that.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Alec." Hodge raised an eyebrow. (He could do it too!) "Are you suggesting that he didn't kill that demon after all?"

"Of course he didn't," Alec scoffed. "Look at him – he's a mundie, Hodge, and a little kid, at that. There's no way he took on a Ravener."

"I'm seventeen, actually," Simon said calmly. "And the next person to call me a mundie is getting punched. For the record." He met Alec's gaze squarely. "I have had a _really bad_ few days."

Jace whistled, and laughed when Alec and Simon both glared at him. "Come on, Alec, I watched him do it. Are you doubting my word?"

Alec's face tightened. "You just admitted you got it with Sanvi," he argued. "_You_ killed it, not _him_." He glanced at Simon. "It's not right for him to be here. Mundies aren't allowed in the Institute, and there are good reasons for that. If anyone knew about this, we could be reported to the Clave."

"That's not entirely true," Hodge said gently. "The Law does allow us to offer sanctuary to mundanes in certain circumstances. A Ravener has already attacked Simon. He is clearly in some kind of danger." Hugo cawed softly in agreement.

"Raveners are search-and-destroy demons," Alec parried. "They act under orders from warlocks or powerful demon lords. Now, what interest would a warlock or demon lord have in an ordinary mundane household?" His eyes were bright with hate when he looked at Simon. "Any thoughts?"

Simon tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I _did_ catch my mom dancing naked in the moonlight last week, sacrificing a baby. Other than that – no, I have no idea what demons would want with us."

"No mundane may summon a demon," Hodge said. "They lack the power. But there have been some, desperate and foolish, who have found a witch or warlock to do it for them."

"My mom doesn't believe in magic." Simon thought of Dorothea. "There's a prophetess who lives downstairs from us, though. Maybe the demon was looking for her place instead?"

Hodge's eyebrows shot up. "A witch lives downstairs from you?"

"She's a fake," Jace said. "She could see me, but I looked into it – there's no reason for any warlock to be interested in her unless he's in the market for non-functional crystal balls." He glanced at Simon. "Having the Sight just makes her a freak," he said cheerfully.

The _like Simon here_ went unsaid, but Simon heard it nonetheless, and tried not to laugh.

Hodge reached up to stroke Hugo again. "Then perhaps it is time to notify the Clave, if we have no other theories."

"No!" Jace said. "We can't – "

"It made sense to keep Simon's presence here a secret while we were uncertain whether he would recover," Hodge allowed. "But now he has, and he is the first mundane" he dipped his head in apology to Simon, "to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred years. You know the rules about mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters, Jace. The Clave must be informed."

"Absolutely," Alec agreed. "I could get a message to my father – "

"He's not a mundane," Jace said quietly.

Hodge's eyebrows made a break for freedom, and Alec choked on whatever else he'd meant to say.

"Um, excuse me," Simon said when the silence stretched. "I object to the name, but I can't argue with the facts. I'm not a – a Shadowhunter, or a Downworlder or anything like that."

"Yes," Jace said quietly. "You are." He turned to Hodge, and Simon saw the slight bob of his throat. The nervousness did nothing to reassure Simon. "That night – I had to use my stele. Simon was bleeding, and then he started going into shock – I had to put him under and do a preliminary – "

"Are you out of your _mind?!_" Hodge shouted, slamming his hand down on top of the desk so hard Simon wondered if it would crack. "You know what the Law says about placing Marks on mundanes! You – you of all people ought to know better!"

"But it worked," Jace said. "Simon, show them your arm."

Baffled, Simon extended both his arms. He hadn't noticed anything in the shower, but now that he looked – there were three faint overlapping circles on his right wrist, the one that had been bitten. They looked like the scars of an injury that had happened years before.

"See, it's almost gone," said Jace as Simon stared at the Mark. "It didn't hurt him at all."

"That's not the point!" Hodge could barely control his rage. "You could have turned him into a Forsaken!"

"I can't believe you, Jace!" Alec echoed. "Only Shadowhunters can receive Covenant Marks – they _kill_ mundanes – "

"Woah," Simon interrupted, looking up from the Mark on his wrist to stare at Jace. "You could have _killed me?_"

"You're not a mundane," Jace told him. He looked back at the other two. "Aren't you listening? It explains why he could see us. He must have Clave blood."

Simon blinked. "What are you saying, that I'm adopted? Oh God, I'm having a Harry Potter moment. _Y'er a wizard, Harry_ – "

All three of them stared at him in bewilderment. Simon resisted the urge to flail. "This is what I'm talking about! How do you have _no _exposure to popular culture at all?"

"You can't be adopted," Hodge said, which was a relief. "No Shadowhunter child would ever be placed in the mundane foster system."

"Your mother must have been a Shadowhunter in exile," Jace offered. "That explains why demons might be sent after her – she could well have had Downworld enemies."

"My mother wasn't a Shadowhunter!" Simon snapped. "And – and stop talking about her in the past tense!"

There was a long, tense silence. Even Alec, apparently, couldn't bring himself to say anything offensive after that.

"Your father, then," Jace said, a clear peace offering. "If your father's a Shadowhunter – "

"My dad's _dead_," Simon said harshly.

Jace flinched.

This time, Alec wasn't shamed into silence. "It's possible," he said slowly. "If Simon's father were a Shadowhunter, and his mother a mundane – well, we all know it's against the Law to marry a mundie. Maybe they were in hiding."

Simon just couldn't see his mom keeping such a huge secret. And his eminently sensible mother, mixed up with demons and Shadowhunters? It didn't make sense. "I really don't think so," he said firmly.

"But would you know?" Jace pressed. "We all have secrets."

Simon thought about it. "Maybe Luke would know," he murmured.

"What?"

Simon brought his attention back to the room. "Luke. He's my mom's oldest friend. And I should call him anyway – it's been three days since I went missing." He felt guilt claw at his stomach. "He must be going crazy."

Without waiting for permission, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and found Luke's number. Turning away for a semblance of privacy, he brought the phone to ear.

Luke picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Luke!" The relief of a familiar voice was so strong Simon's knees went weak. "It's me. Simon."

"Simon." Luke, too, sounded relieved – but there was something else there, too, something that made Simon frown. "You're all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry I didn't call you before." Simon sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. "Luke, my mom – "

"I know. The police were here."

Simon's heart sank. "You haven't heard from her," he whispered. It wasn't a question. "What – what did the police say?"

"Just that she was missing. Where are you?"

"I'm – " where? " – in the city, with some friends. But," he felt hopeful, "I could take a cab to your place – "

"No," Luke said shortly.

"What?" Simon couldn't process it. "Why not?"

"It's too dangerous. You can't come here."

Anger sparked in his gut. "Are you kidding me?" Simon asked, fighting to keep his tone even. "My mom's _missing_, Luke, how much worse can it possibly get?"

"Look." Luke's voice was uncharacteristically hard. "Whatever your mother's gotten herself mixed up in, it's nothing to do with me. You're better off where you are."

"You think this is mom's fault?" Simon bristled. "I repeat: _are you kidding me?_ What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm not your father, Simon. I've told you that before. You're not my responsibility."

"Fuck you," Simon snarled. He was nearly shaking; he wanted to break something. Preferably Luke's scummy face. It made him even angrier that he couldn't think of anything worse to say; all his usual wit deserted him in the face of this – this – "When this is over – if you _ever_ come near me or my mom again, I will break your fucking jaw. Go to Hell, you complete and utter _asshole_." He hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket.

When Jace lightly touched his arm, Simon nearly punched him. "_What?_"

Jace's face shut down. "I take it he wasn't happy to hear from you."

"Not particularly," Simon snarked.

"I think I'd like to have a talk with Simon," Hodge said. "Alone," he added firmly as Jace opened his mouth to protest.

Alec shrugged out of his chair. "Fine. We'll leave you to it." He glared at Jace. "I have a few things to discuss with my _parabatai_ anyway."

"That's hardly fair," Jace objected, ignoring Alec. "I'm the one who found him. I'm the one who saved his life! You want me here, don't you?" he appealed, turning back to Simon.

"Right now I'd prefer to be alone, actually," Simon said coolly. Jace and Hodge both looked shocked. "But I guess I can stand to hear some more explanations."

Alec laughed. "Not everyone wants you all the time, Jace."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jace said, but he sounded disappointed. Simon didn't look at him. "Fine, then. We'll be in the weapons room." It wasn't clear whether who he was talking to, but as the door clicked shut behind him and Alec, Simon heard Alec say "Why is the mundie wearing my clothes?"

"Sit down," Hodge invited. "Here, on the couch."

Simon was still angry enough to resent the patronising tone, but acquiesced. Being angry was easier than being hurt, but Hodge didn't deserve either from him. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "I didn't – I didn't mean to be rude. It's just – "

Hodge held up a hand as he sat down next to Simon. "I perfectly understand, and accept your apology." He peered at Simon's face. "Is there anything I can get you? Something to drink?"

Simon shook his head. "No, thank you." He sighed. "I want to find my mom. And then – and then I think I want to go home." It sounded – pathetic, and childish, spoken aloud. But he thought he could forgive himself for it. Hodge certainly didn't seem offended.

"I think we had better try to find your mother," he agreed, making Simon look up in sudden hope. "Perhaps we could begin by your telling me a little about what happened. The demon you and Jace dealt with in your apartment – was that the first such creature you'd ever seen? You had no inkling such creatures before?"

"Not outside of rpgs," Simon answered unthinkingly. "No, wait – there was that other one at the club, but I didn't know what it was, then. The first time I saw Jace."

"Right, of course, how foolish of me to forget." Hodge nodded. "In Pandemonium. That was the first time?"

"Yes."

"And your mother never mentioned them to you – nothing about another world, perhaps, that most people cannot see? Did she seem particularly interested in myths, fairy tales, legends of the fantastic – "

"No. Well, she read some, sometimes. People would give her these books, but mostly she gave them away, or to me. She only kept a few," Simon said, remembering his mom's bookshelf. "_The Necessary Beggar_. Books like that."

"I know it," Hodge allowed, making Simon smile.

"But she's – she's the most normal person on Earth," Simon said, trying to find the words to perfectly encapsulate his mother. "She's so down to earth. I mean, you wouldn't expect that, from an artist. But she is."

"Normal people don't generally find their homes ransacked by demons," Hodge said gently.

Simon slumped against the sofa. "Could it have been a mistake?"

"If it had been a mistake, and you an ordinary boy, you would not have seen the demon that attacked you," Hodge said. "Or if you had, your mind would have processed it as something else entirely: a vicious dog, or another human being. That you could see it, that it spoke to you – "

"It was speaking to Jace, really," Simon corrected absently. "It – it talked about eating me."

Hodge did not comment on this. "Raveners are generally under the control of a stronger demon. They're not very bright or capable of their own," Hodge explained. "Did it say what its master was looking for?"

Simon frowned, trying to think back. It was all such a horrible blur in his head. "It said...it said that Valentine hadn't warned it that there would be Shadowhunters there."

Hodge jerked upright, so abruptly that the raven on his shoulder launched himself into the air with an annoyed caw. "_Valentine?_ Are you sure?"

"Yes," Simon said. "I heard the name in Pandemonium from the – the other demon, too."

"It's a name we all know," Hodge said shortly. His hands were trembling very slightly, Simon noticed with a start. Hugo, back on Hodge's shoulder, ruffed his feathers uneasily.

"Who is he?" Simon asked. "A demon?"

"No. Valentine is – _was_ – a Shadowhunter."

Simon held up his hand, feeling tired. "Let me guess. He's the Voldemort of Shadowhunters, right?" He thought back to what Jace had said in the club. _'He's in Hell, and you can join him there!'_ "And dead?"

"Yes." Hodge looked startled by Simon's deductions.

"Well, that's a relief." Simon chewed his lip. "He can't come back like Voldemort though, right? It's just someone else using his name?"

"It's possible someone is using his name to send a message," Hodge allowed. He stood up and paced to his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "This would certainly be the time to do it."

"Why?" Simon asked warily.

"Because of the Accords."

"Jace mentioned peace negotiations," Simon remembered. "Is that them? Peace with who?"

"Downworlders," Hodge murmured. He looked back at Simon. "Forgive me. This must be confusing for you."

Simon laughed. "I'm getting used to it," he said, and tried not to feel guilty for the bitterness in his voice, and Hodge's subsequent flinch.

Hodge leaned against his desk, stroking Hugo. "Downworlders are those who share the Shadow World with us. We have always lived in uneasy peace with them."

Simon nodded. "Jace told me about them. Vampires, werewolves..."

"And the Fair Folk," Hodge said. "Faeries. And Lilith's children, being half-demon, are warlocks."

"What about Shadowhunters?" Simon asked. "Jace said you're more than human, but he didn't really explain."

"We are sometimes called the Nephilim," said Hodge. Simon recognised the term, but it seemed ruder to interrupt Hodge than it had Jace – maybe because, in his tweed suit, Hodge reminded him of a college professor, and the scar on his face made Simon think his knowledge was hard-won. "In the Bible they were the offspring of humans and angels. The legend of the origin of Shadowhunters is that they were created more than a thousand years ago, when humans were being overrun by demon invasions from other worlds. A warlock summoned the Angel Raziel, who mixed some of his own blood with the blood of men in a cup, and gave it to those men to drink. Those who drank the Angel's blood became Shadowhunters, as did their children and their children's children. The cup thereafter was known as the Mortal Cup. Though the legend may not be fact, what is true is that through the years, when Shadowhunter ranks were depleted, it was always possible to create more Shadowhunters using the Cup."

It sounded so impossible, like something from a manga. That this was the history of a _real people _– a people with their own country, their own culture – was mind-boggling. "_Was_ possible?" he asked quietly.

"The Cup is gone," said Hodge. "Destroyed by Valentine, just before he died. He set a great fire and burned himself to death along with his family, his wife, and his child. Scorched the land black. No one will build there still. They say the land is cursed."

"Is it?" Simon asked, curious. Demons were real. Maybe curses were too; what did he know?

"Possibly. The Clave hands down curses on occasion for breaking the Law. Valentine broke the greatest Law of all – he took up arms against his fellow Shadowhunters and slew them. He and his group, the Circle, killed dozens of their brethren along with hundreds of Downworlders at the last Accords. They were only barely defeated."

"I'm sure I'm going to regret asking, but why would he do that?"

"He didn't approve of the Accords. He despised Downworlders and felt that they should be slaughtered, wholesale, to keep this world pure for human beings. Though the Downworlders are not demons, not invaders, he felt that they were demonic in nature, and that that was enough. The Clave did not agree – they felt the assistance of Downworlders was necessary if we were ever to drive off demonkind for good. And who could argue, really, that the Fair Folk do not belong in this world, when they have been here longer than we have?"

It did seem a particularly stupid argument. "What about the Accords? Did they get signed?"

"Yes, they were signed. When the Downworlders saw the Clave turn on Valentine and his Circle in their defence, they realised the Shadowhunters were not their enemies. Ironically, with his insurrection Valentine made the Accords possible." Hodge sat down behind his desk. "I apologise; this must be a dull history lesson for you. That was Valentine. A firebrand, a visionary, a man of great personal charm and conviction. A killer. Now someone is invoking his name..."

"It's not boring at all," Simon assured him. "It's – don't take this the wrong way, but it's fascinating. There's this whole other world I don't know about, and I want to know it all." Even if he felt bad for being so interested, when his mom was MIA. "It's just...what does this have to do with me?"

Hodge stood up again. "I don't know. But I shall do what I can to find out. I will send messages to the Clave and also to the Silent Brothers. They may wish to speak with you."

Simon wasn't at all sure he wanted to speak with people called the Silent Brothers, because that sounded incredibly creepy, but he didn't protest. "Do you think it's safe for me to go home?" he asked instead. Although now he thought about it, the idea of facing his mother's destroyed paintings again made him feel sick and tired.

Hodge looked concerned. "No, I – I wouldn't think that would be wise."

He really was Dumbledore without the beard. Simon had never heard anyone else say _wise_. "What about just a quick pit stop? If I'm going to stay here, I can't keep borrowing Alec's clothes. He might put itching powder in them."

"I'm sure Alec would do no such thing," Hodge said. "However, if Jace will agree to it, he may escort you there. For a _short_ visit," he stressed.

Simon nodded: it was a very acceptable compromise. "How do I get to the weapons room?" That was where Jace had said he and Alec were going.

Hodge smiled crookedly. "Church will take you."

"Church...?" Simon looked around, aside from himself and Hodge – and Hugo and the cat by the door – the library was empty.

"Oh, the cat!" Simon face palmed. "I forgot." He got up from the sofa. "Thank you," he told Hodge.

"You are very welcome, Simon," Hodge said gravely.

The cat – Church – rose as Simon walked towards him, fur rippling like liquid. With a meow that somehow managed to be imperious Church led Simon into the hall and away.


	5. Chapter 5

If the library had belonged in Hogwarts, then the weapons room was like a cross between Dragon Age and one of the Final Fantasy games. Brushed metal walls were nearly invisible behind the racks of weapons – every kind of sword, dagger, spear, bayonet, and even bows, both long- and cross-. Quivers of arrows hung neatly next to them. Leather armour was stacked carefully in boxes where it wasn't hung on mannequins, and punching bags hung from the ceiling, far away from the central space. Everything smelled of metal and leather and polish, but Simon couldn't see any guns and that seemed pretty stupid. Or did guns not work on demons?

Alec and Jace, who was now wearing shoes, sat at a long table at the centre of the room, heads bent close together over something they had between them. "Where's Hodge?" Alec demanded.

Simon smiled as sweetly as he could. "Doing your mom." He looked at Jace. "Hodge says I can go home to grab a few things if you'll come with me."

"Don't I get a pretty please?" Jace asked, raising an eyebrow.

"With whipped cream and a cherry on top," Simon answered immediately.

Jace smirked, and then seemed to catch himself. Simon frowned at him, but Jace ducked his head to examine whatever was on the table. "We can go after we put the finishing touches on these," he said.

Simon walked forward. "What are 'these'?"

Jace moved aside so Simon could see. Three long slim dowels of faintly glowing silver rested between Jace and Alec. They didn't look at all dangerous, unless they were glowing because they were radioactive. Since Shadowhunters apparently didn't use guns, Simon doubted they had made the jump to nuclear weapons, however useful they might be.

"Well, these ones are finished," Jace explained, pointing to each one as he named it. "Sanvi, Sansanvi, and Semangelaf. And this one," he pointed at another, "isn't quite done yet. They're seraph blades."

"You used Sanvi on that Ravener," Simon remembered.

Jace nodded, grinning. "See, Alec? Someone appreciates me."

Alec glared at them both. Simon ignored him. "It doesn't look like a knife now," he pointed out. "Is it magic?"

Alec exchanged his look of annoyance for one of horror.

"The funny thing about mundies," Jace said to nobody in particular, "is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people who don't even know what the word means."

Simon leaned over and punched him – not too hard – on the shoulder. "I warned you," he said to Jace's surprised face. "Also, next time you can just say 'no'. Can we head home now?"

"Jace," Alec exhaled, but Jace ignored him.

"I suppose going through your mother's things is one way to find out whether or not she's a Shadowhunter," he mused. He grinned crookedly. "If we go now, we should have another three, four hours of daylight."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Alec asked as Simon and Jace headed for the door. Simon glanced back at him. He was half out of his seat already, eyes expectant. He reminded Simon sharply of a puppy.

"No," Jace said without turning around, "that's all right. Simon and I can handle this on our own."

_If looks could kill..._ Simon thought. The look Alec shot him would have had him six feet under and rotted to dust, if it could have. Feeling petty and childish, Simon stuck his tongue out at him.

Alec gaped, and the door shut between them.

Jace lead them down the hall and into a marble-floored foyer like the one in Simon's complex. But this one hadn't been neglected for decades; the dust that covered most of the Institute hadn't intruded here. An old-fashioned elevator was set into one wall. Jace pushed the button for it and it creaked as it rose from some unimaginable depths to meet them.

"Jace?" Simon asked.

"Yeah?"

"How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood?"

The elevator arrived with a final groan, and Jace unlatched the gate. The inside reminded Simon uneasily of a cage, but he supposed that was because it was one. Little bits of gilt lingered on random bars. "I guessed," Jace said as he closed the door behind them. "It seemed like the most likely explanation."

"Oh," Simon said mildly, and punched him.

Only this time it wasn't a joke, and Jace hit the bars with a screech of metal. He didn't make a sound, and Simon was pretty sure he never would have been able to do that if Jace had been on guard – but he hadn't been, and now he was holding his jaw with raw surprise written all over his face.

Simon folded his arms over his chest and stared at the door, waiting for it to reach their level. "Next time, don't take risks with my life without asking me first," he said blandly. "I accept that I needed some kind of medical attention. But next time: _ask first_."

Slowly, Jace straightened. He didn't say anything.

By the time he reached forward to open the door Simon felt really, really awful. He'd never hit someone in his life, not even Adam Williams who had bullied him in fourth grade. And this was Jace! Who had saved his life!

"I'm so sor – " he began, but Jace stopped him.

"No, you – you were right. I shouldn't have done that. Not without asking you." Jace grinned. "But you only get one free shot. Next time..."

Simon laughed. "Next time, we'll set a date and call it a duel." He felt lighter than he had since he'd woken up in a strange bed. Hell, maybe his mom was at home. Maybe she would be there when he and Jace walked in.

His heart sank again. She wouldn't be. If she had reappeared she would have called.

_Unless she doesn't have her phone,_ Simon told himself hopefully, but the moment was gone.

)0(

They spent the first part of the train ride to Brooklyn in easy enough silence. There didn't seem to be anything to say, and Simon wasn't in the mood for small talk. He wanted his mom. He wanted her to be okay, and it was hard to think about anything but that.

In an effort to distract himself, Simon swept his eyes over the rest of the train carriage. Besides himself and Jace, there were a couple of girls giggling together and sneaking glances at the two boys.

No, Simon realised with a snort of wry amusement; not at _them_. At _Jace_.

Well, was that really so surprising? Jace wasn't porcelain-perfect like Alec was, but Simon would be lying if he claimed the blonde Shadowhunter wasn't good looking. _Very_ good looking; Simon tried desperately not to remember the dreams he'd had after Pandemonium, the ones where Jace's honey-coloured eyes had featured a little too predominantly. It really wasn't Simon's fault that Jace looked good covered in blood splatter – even when it was demon ichor instead of normal red blood.

Jace's eyebrows rose gracefully, and Simon knew he was blushing.

"Anything I can help you with?" Jace drawled.

Simon swallowed and cast about for an appropriate distraction. "Those girls over there are staring at you," he blurted.

Really? That was the best he could come up with? He wanted to face-palm himself on principle.

Jace smirked and, yes, fine, that was a good look on him. "Of course they are," he purred. "I am stunningly attractive."

_You really are,_ Simon agreed, and only just stopped himself from saying it out loud. "No, honestly, tell me what you really think," he deadpanned instead.

Jace shrugged. "Only ugly people count modesty as a virtue," he said confidingly. "The meek may inherit the earth, but at the moment it belongs to the conceited. Like me." He winked at the two girls, who chirped like birds and hid behind their hair.

Simon laughed. He should have been annoyed, or at least a little disgusted by Jace's arrogance, but instead it was just funny. It made a nice change from Clary's firm belief in her own drabness; it was kind of a relief to meet someone who knew and flaunted what they looked like.

Jace looked pleased by Simon's laughter.

"How come they can see you, though?" Simon asked, leaning back in his seat. The next stop was theirs.

"Glamours are a pain to use. Sometimes we don't bother."

Jace was still happy when they left the train. Out on the street again, he plucked one of the seraph blades from his pocket and started flipping it back and forth between his fingers and across his knuckles, like a coin trick. He was even humming, something that sounded maddeningly familiar but which Simon couldn't place.

Simon breathed deeply and tipped his head back as they walked up the hill to the house. He was feeling good again, as if Jace's good humour was infecting him, and he liked it. But he couldn't deny the frission of fear as they passed the box hedges around the complex.

And it got worse. There was no sign of what had happened, not from the outside at least: no police tape, no broken glass. The brownstone house looked warm, touched with gold by the afternoon light, but it seemed _too_ picturesque, like a serial killer in a beautiful suit – as though it were hiding something.

Jace reached into his jeans pocket and drew out another Sensor. Simon couldn't believe he'd mistaken it for a phone; despite the similarity of its plastic and metal shape, it was covered in tiny runes, with no numbers in sight. "How does that thing work, anyway?"

"It picks up frequencies, like a radio does. But these frequencies are demonic in origin."

Simon nodded. "Demon shortwave."

Jace glanced at him. "Something like that." He held the Sensor out in front of him as he approached, and almost immediately it started clicking.

Simon raised his eyebrows. "I'm guessing that's not good."

Jace frowned. "It's picking up trace activity, but that could just be left over from the other night. I'm not getting anything strong enough for there to be demons present now."

"If you're sure." But Jace was the Shadowhunter, not Simon – no matter what was in his veins – so he deferred to the other boy's expertise. When he reached for the door, keys extended, Jace placed a hand on his arm.

"I'll go first."

Very gently, because he understood and appreciated the gesture, Simon pushed Jace's arm away. Even though the thought of facing another demon made him want to be sick, even though it made adrenalin pool cold and venomous in his stomach – "I can't hide behind you."

Jace glared at him. "This is not the time for pride," he started, but Simon cut him off.

"It's – it's not about pride. I swear. It's..." Simon struggled to find the words – or, not the words, because those were easy and obvious. But words that he could safely say, ones that wouldn't turn things awkward, wouldn't weigh between them like stones. "It's not that I'm not terrified. I am, okay? But if I let it rule me, it's always going to. And I have the feeling that sorting this out – " finding his mother, and whoever was sending demons after them, and maybe even discovering more about having Shadowhunter blood, " – is going to take a while. I can't..." He ran his hand through his hair. "I can't afford to get into the habit of being scared," he said finally.

Instead of answering, Jace pushed something into Simon's hand. "Take this, then."

Simon glanced down. Jace had handed him one of the seraph blades. "Um... I'm touched, really, but this isn't what I – "

"Say its name – Simiel – and it will extend," Jace said over him. His gold eyes were less honey and more yellow diamond, now – hard and unyielding. "You're not going in there without it."

Uncertain, Simon folded his fingers around the cool crystal. The round ingot fit perfectly into his palm, and it felt – important. Symbolic of something larger. He didn't know enough about Shadowhunters or their weapons to be able to say for sure, but he felt like – like it wasn't normal for Jace to be handing over a seraph blade. Especially not to some untrained _mundie_. "I think you'll regret that when I take my own eye out, but thank you."

Jace dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Now, can we go?"

The interior was dark, and for a moment Simon froze on the threshold, adrenalin-certain that something would spring at him from the shadows if he entered. But he shoved himself forward, taking in the bulb that had yet to be replaced, and the disgustingly dirty skylight. It was those, not demons, that had cloaked the foyer in darkness.

"Wait," Jace ordered as Simon was about to climb the stairs. The Shadowhunter ran his fingers over the banister, and even in the bad light Simon could tell that they came away wet.

"Is – is that – "

"Blood," Jace said simply. He rubbed his fingers together, frowning.

Simon swallowed hard. _Wet_ meant _fresh_. "Could it – do you think it's my mom's?" he asked lowly. Could Jocelyn have come back here, only to run into – what? Another Ravener?

_No. No. The world would not be that cruel._

"No way to tell." Jace lowered his arm. "Come on." He jerked his chin up the stairs, and this time Simon didn't protest when Jace took point.

Simon clutched the seraph blade Jace had lent – or given? – him. "Simiel," he whispered. It extended with the softest _snick_ into a shard of ice or starlight that was more short-sword than knife, but if Jace heard it he pretended not to.

The door to his apartment was closed, but unlocked. Jace gestured sharply but this time, with Simiel glowing like starlight on black water in his hand, Simon refused to hide in the blonde's shadow. Jace scowled but Simon ignored him – and his own pounding pulse – and stepped inside.

The hallway was dark, almost pitch black, but Simon had lived here his whole life; he could have found his way around blindfolded and hopping on one leg. Automatically he turned into the sitting room, drawn by some masochistic instinct to look over the damage again.

But it was gone. Not just the mess, but – _everything_. The room was stripped bare, so that Simon felt as if he were viewing a flat on the market, not standing in the middle of his own home. Even the curtains were gone; even the carpet.

Without a word Simon spun on his heel and moved into the kitchen, Jace padding silently beside him like a tiger. It made Simon forget to be afraid, having this sleek, powerful creature at his side. _Tiger, Tiger, burning bright..._

The kitchen was just as empty.

"I will allow," Simon said slowly, "that a refrigerator might be useful for storing bodies, if you took the shelves out. But I can't think of any reason demons would want a microwave." He paused. "Cannibal microwave meals?"

"I've no idea, but I'm not sensing any demonic presences right now. I'd say they're long gone."

Simon breathed slowly and carefully. "Let me check my room," he said quietly. "And then – then I guess we can get out of here."

He wasn't sure what he was expecting as he made his way between rooms. Would his room be naked, too? In his head, it was untouched, exactly as he'd left it, but he knew full well that was only because he couldn't imagine it unmade. A person's room was their sanctuary, and the thought of some interloper – _demons_ – going through his things, _taking _them, made him feel violated. His room was the summation of himself. It couldn't just be – gone.

He paused a moment too long with his hand on the handle of his bedroom door.

It blew outward with a burst of sound, slamming into Simon and sending him flying; he hit the wall, and Simiel tumbled uselessly from his fingers. His ears were full of roaring.

Jace fumbled in his pocket, his face a mask of surprise. Framed in the doorway was an enormous thing that Simon at first thought was an Uruk-hai. But no, it wasn't as ugly as the Tolkien orcs, and it looked – it looked _human,_ mostly, just corpse-pale and filthy.

The enormous axe in its hand didn't look too clean either.

"Sansanvi!" Jace shouted, and the little cylinder became as long as his forearm, wicked as a shard of glass. It lashed out and the creature roared, stumbling backwards clumsily.

Instantly Jace spun and raced for Simon. Without pausing, he wrenched Simon up by his arm and shoved him ahead.

"Wait!" Simon yelled. He scooped Simiel up from the ground before Jace – who hadn't let go of him – could pull him out of range.

"Are you mad?!" Jace shouted. The thing was coming after them, its footsteps so heavy they vibrated through the floorboards. But despite that it was _fast_; Simon didn't have to look back to know it was gaining. He was breathlessly terrified, but also disconnected, as though he were running through molasses; the world was strange and heavy and something apart from himself.

_This just can't be real._

They hurtled through the entryway and onto the landing. Jace whipped around and slammed the door closed with a kick. Simon heard the lock engage and clutched the stair's banister, trying to catch his breath, figuring that now, they must be safe –

The door shook on its hinges; Simon yelped, and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. But Jace didn't notice. "Get downstairs!" he ordered. His eyes were bright, almost manic, as if he'd just hit the high of some drug. "Get out of the – "

Another blow came, and this time the door surrendered; it flew free of its hinges, and if Jace hadn't moved quicker than thought he would have been hit. Abruptly Jace was on the top stair, as if frames had been cut from a film – one moment here; the next, elsewhere, with nothing in between. He shouted something, but Simon couldn't hear what it was, not over the creature's bellows as it burst from the doorway, swinging its axe.

"_Jace!_" Simon shouted. Jace only laughed.

The insult of it drove the creature mad. It hurled itself at Jace, abandoning its axe in favour of raising its bowling-ball fists. And Jace –

Spun, like a dancer, flowing out of the way like he was made of water, and as the giant bowled past him he slashed Sansanvi across its shoulder.

The monster roared. Simon scrambled to his feet, his palm sweaty against Simiel's cool crystal. He didn't know what to do. Jace had told him to run, but Simon – he couldn't do that, couldn't leave Jace to face this thing on his own. It didn't matter that Jace was trained for this, that he knew what he was doing when Simon didn't. He couldn't abandon the guy who'd saved his life.

Jace was circling, darting back and forth like a cat, avoiding the monster's clumsy snatches. Simon could hear the ocean in his ears, and he thought he might be shaking; he felt frozen and hot, both at once.

_It's just like a video game. It's just like a video game_, Simon chanted silently, but even his mental voice was edging closer to hysterical than calm. _Come on. Come on. Come _on_, you said you weren't going to be scared, you said that, come on, you can do this, just move, just move, just – move –_

He ran forward, nearly as clumsily as the giant. He had enough sense to skirt around in the dimmer parts of the landing. _It's just like a video game, it's just like a video game!_

Jace lunged, his blonde hair and seraph blade glinting in the faint light. Simon didn't see the hit, only heard the monster bellow, bull-like, and saw the spray of red blood, saw Jace's wild, elated grin.

Simon stared. The monster swayed on its feet, its bulbous, black-latticed face twisted into a grimace of shock. Then it fell, forward, hands out and grasping. Jace moved, but this time he wasn't quite quick enough, Simon saw it coming, it was going to grab Jace and they would go down together, down the stairs and into the dark –

That was – unacceptable, that was completely unacceptable, no, Simon's mind flashed and sparked at a thousand light-years a second and no, no, _no_, he sprinted the short distance and jumped from his toes, just like a springboard. Simiel plunged into the creature's back and Simon heard a snarl like that of a wild animal, fierce and vicious and full of rage.

He didn't realise until later that the sound had come from his own lips.

The force of his leap drove the seraph blade in deep, and slammed the already swaying creature onto the floor. Simon was flung clear, not far, but he landed hard on his back, gasping at the shock of dull pain.

Simiel glittered in the monster's back, at the top of its spine.

Before Simon could really process what had just happened Jace was kneeling at his side, "Simon!" His voice was panicked. "What's wrong? Did it get you?" He ran his hands over Simon's shoulders, arms, his chest, frantic. "I can't see – where are you hurt, Simon, _where are you hurt_ – "

"Wh-what?" Simon sat upright, groaning at the ache in his muscles. "What are you talking abou – "

He glanced down, and his heart nearly stopped. His shirt was covered in blood. Christ, _had_ he been hurt, had he cut himself with Simiel somehow?

He swallowed hard. "No – no, Jace, calm down, it's – I don't think any of it's mine. Stop that," he added sharply, and Jace withdrew his hands as if burned. "Just – just give me a second, okay?"

Jace nodded mutely, his eyes wide, and Simon took a deep breath and banished the memory of Jace's hands on him.

"Alec's going to kill me for getting blood on his shirt, isn't he?" he asked finally, when he thought he was more or less solid again. He was beginning to get the adrenalin shakes, but – but he felt okay.

"Forget Alec, _I'm_ going to murder you if you keep stealing my kills," Jace said lightly. "You're beginning to make me look bad." Despite his tone, there was a wild look around his eyes. Simon wondered if the same expression was etched around his own, and reminded himself that adrenalin did not justify pulling the Shadowhunter down and laying one on him. But God, he wanted to. Just, right now – right now he desperately wanted to be close to somebody.

He took another deep breath. Jace wasn't really the one he wanted, but thank God Clary wasn't here. "Yeah, well. You'll just have to step up your game." Simon pushed gently at Jace's shoulder. "I mean, so far, I have to admit that I'm not very impressed."

Jace looked scandalised, and Simon laughed. It was a short bark of a laugh, and it sounded a little hysterical even to his own ears, but – still.

And then his eyes found the corpse again, and he sobered. "Um, Jace – I thought the bodies vanished when you killed them?"

Jace shook his head. "No, I said that's what happened to demons." Standing up, he went and retrieved Simiel – gingerly, pulling his sleeve down to cover his fingers so that his skin didn't actually touch it. He wiped it on his shirt, and when he handed it back to Simon it was no longer a knife, just a little dowel of crystal again. Simon clutched it so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white. "That wasn't a demon. It was a Forsaken – which is what you get when you put Marks on a mundane. If they don't die outright." He nudged the body with his boot. "We're going to have to report this to Hodge," he said. "He'll freak out." He sounded delighted by the prospect.

Simon was more concerned with the dawning horror in his chest. "You risked turning me into _that?_" he demanded.

Jace pulled a face. "I thought we were past that?"

Simon ground his teeth, but it was true. He had punched Jace and Jace had allowed it. The rules of Guy Code said that the issue was dealt with. "Well, if it's dead, I still want to go check my room," he said firmly.

Jace looked up at the ceiling as if appealing to God. "There might be more of them," he told the roof conversationally. "If you insist on going back in there, this time I really am sweeping it first."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a familiar voice shrilled. "There are more of them where the first one came from."

Jace whirled to stare down the steps. Simon struggled to his feet and padded up next to him, peering into the gloom. "Madame Dorothea?" he asked uncertainly.

The old woman nodded her turban-crowned head regally. Standing in the doorway of her apartment, she was half-drowned in purple silk and gold chains, and the white stripe in her black hair shone in the dark.

"But..." Jace was looking confused.

"More Forsaken?" Simon asked.

"Indeed," Dorothea replied, with a cheerfulness that seemed spiteful in its intensity. "You have made a mess, haven't you? I'm sure you weren't planning on cleaning up, either. Typical."

"But you're a _mundane_," Jace protested.

"Nobody cares," Simon told him.

"So observant," Dorothea added. "The Clave really broke the mould with you."

Jace's expression was morphing from bewilderment to anger. "You know about the Clave?" he demanded. "You knew about them, and you knew there were Forsaken in this house, and you didn't notify them? Just the existence of Forsaken is a crime against the Covenant – "

"Neither Clave nor Covenant have ever done anything for me," Madame Dorothea sniffed. "I owe them nothing." For a moment her familiar New York accent slid into something else – something deep and thick.

"Jace, shut up," Simon ordered tiredly. The blood was wet, making his shirt stick to his skin, and he desperately wanted to change into something clean, desperately did not want to think about what had just happened. _It used to be a person. That thing was – _"Madame Dorothea, do you know what happened to my mom?"

Dorothea's earrings swung wildly as she shook her head, bright against her black-and-white hair. "My advice to you," she said quietly, with something far too close to pity on her face, "is to forget about your mother. She's gone."

A bullet couldn't have hurt as much, and Simon stumbled back as if he really had been shot. Cold. Everything was instantly cold and dizzying and – "She's dead?" he whispered. No. Please, please, please – _no_.

"No," Dorothea said slowly. Reluctantly. "I'm sure she's still alive. For now."

Simon closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands to them, fingers slipping stickily beneath his glasses. _Oh thank God._ He could breathe again. His knees felt weak. He swallowed. "Then I have to find her." It was that simple.

He lowered his hands when Jace touched his elbow, his face concerned.

"I have to find her," Simon said again, to Jace this time.

Jace nodded. "We will," he promised, gently, as though Simon might break if he'd heard any other words. Simon couldn't fault him for his fear; it seemed a valid one, just then.

"Do you know where she is?" Simon asked, turning back to Dorothea.

She held up her hand in a warding gesture. "I don't want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business."

The cold still lingered under his skin, like ice that hadn't quite melted. The chill of it stabbed into his brain and his voice cut the air like a dagger, like Simiel, hard and arctic and so ruthless that it scared him. "I don't give a damn about 'Shadowhunter business'. I don't give a damn about the Clave. _I want to find my mother_."

For a moment, no one spoke. Jace looked shocked; Dorothea, calculating. Simon didn't take his eyes from her face. He didn't threaten her. Right then, he felt as though he didn't need to, as if he _was_ the threat, standing there on the stairs covered in blood with a seraph blade in his hand.

Finally, Dorothea nodded, and Simon felt the tension waterfall out of his chest. "I suppose you might as well come in," she said slowly. "Why don't you and your pet Shadowhunter go and change out of those bloody clothes – I happen to know they left your room alone – " Simon thought about asking how she knew that, but then changed his mind, "and then we can have tea like civilised people."

Simon dipped his head. "That would be wonderful," he said honestly as Jace bristled. Without thinking he clapped his hand over the blonde's mouth, before he could say something to make Dorothea change her mind.

Dorothea's eyes glittered with amusement. "I think I'm going to enjoy this," she murmured.

* * *

Happy Holidays, every one! Have two chapters as a Christmas present :)

Notes~

In _City of Bones_, Jace warns Clary that it takes years of training before even a Shadowhunter can touch and use a seraph blade safely. However, in _City of Ashes_, he hands her one without even blinking, and although this is sort of explained in _City of Glass _– Jace mentions how surprised he was that she could use it, and it is put down to the angelic blood Valentine fed a pregnant Jocelyn – that explanation never really satisfied me. (Why would he hand it to her in the first place if he thought it might kill her?) Suffice to say that the way seraph blades work and are used in this fic differ from canon. I won't explain how yet, but you'll find out.

Also, _Simiel_ is the name of one of the Archangels, as listed by Pope Saint Gregory 1st.


	6. Chapter 6

Simon dropped his hand from Jace's mouth the moment Dorothea turned away, and quickly pressed his fingers to his own lips, warning Jace to be quiet. Jace's eyes flashed, sunlight on topaz, but he held his tongue until the seeress closed her apartment door behind her.

"Let's get one thing straight here," he snarled then. "_You are not in charge_. You don't know what you're doing!" He jabbed his finger towards Dorothea's door. "You just gave her time to prepare Angel knows what in there!"

Simon blinked. "What, tea and biscuits?"

" 'What, tea and biscuits?'" Jace echoed mockingly. "What about a _trap_, Simon. She knows about the Clave and Forsaken; she could be _anything_."

"You checked her out!" Simon protested.

"I really didn't," Jace drawled. "Badger hair isn't my type."

Simon resisted the urge to smack him. "You know what I mean! You told Hodge she was a fake!"

"Well, clearly I missed something!" Jace hissed.

Simon threw his hands up. "Then we'll go in prepared for her to try and turn us into frogs. She can't surprise us if we're expecting it, right?"

"Once you've spent a bit more time in our world," Jace said, "you won't ask me that again."

That was ominous. Simon licked his lips nervously, and told himself to stop reading into things when Jace followed the gesture. The human eye was attracted (not like that!) to motion, that was all. Everyone always thought watching someone's tongue meant they _like_-liked you, but it didn't.

He really needed to call Clary.

"Well, I'm going back inside. I want clean clothes."

Jace's eyes snapped back to his. "Did you not listen to a word I just said?" he demanded. "She _told _you to go to your room. It could be a – "

" – Trap, yes, thank you, I realise that," Simon snapped. "But then I'll be a frog, and you won't have to deal with the annoying little mundie anymore." Shoving Simiel into his pocket, he turned on his heel and went back into the apartment. "And you should probably call Hodge," he called over his shoulder. "Someone should probably come move the – the body. That's another thing you Shadowhunters do, right?"

He slipped through the doorway without listening for Jace's reply.

)0(

Dorothea had, however she'd known it, told the truth, more or less. Simon's room had clearly been gone through, but as far as he could tell nothing was missing, and it wasn't all that much messier than when he'd left it.

Simon entered slowly, brandishing Simiel in front of him like a tennis racquet and feeling like a dork. It was impossible to believe that he'd killed a Forsaken just a few minutes ago; it was easier to just not think about it, about the thick, grinding _crunch_ of the seraph blade shoving through bone and _yeah, no, let's look for clothes now!_

Why hadn't they taken his stuff, too? Simon wondered as he rummaged through his wardrobe. The rest of the apartment was stripped bare, but they – whoever They were – had only searched through his things. It was weird.

He put Simiel down for a second – but within reach on his bed – to pull Alec's bloodstained shirt over his head. He shuddered as the clingy fabric came free; the wet, sucking sensation made his skin crawl. He tossed the thing in his laundry basket and pulled on a grey tee. It had a picture of the Monopoly Man holding a sword and a staff in either hand on it, above the caption YOU SHALL NOT PASS GO, and the moment he put it on he felt like himself again.

He snatched up Simiel and spun around at the sound of a knock behind him. Jace, lounging in the doorway like a cover model, raised an eyebrow. "At least you aren't entirely stupid," he commented. His eyes scanned Simon's shirt, and he frowned. "If you can't pass, why is it telling you to go?"

"Oh my God, go away." Simon waved his hand at Jace like a lord dismissing a servant. "Just go."

"But I can't pass!" Jace mocked.

Simon bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "Go to jail," he ordered.

Jace frowned again. "I'm too pretty for gaol."

"No, it's – see, it's not funny when you don't get it." Simon sighed. "Look, I have to find some proper pants." Jace raised his other eyebrow as if to say _then get on with it._ Simon rolled his eyes. "And some underwear, you _utter_ moron, because someone forgot to give me some this morning. So go away or turn your back already."

"You've been – "

Simon folded his arms across his chest. "Walking around without any all day? Pretty much."

Jace looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Ah...right, then," he said awkwardly. "I'll just – give you a minute."

"Please," Simon drawled, trying – not very successfully – not to smirk.

Jace glared at him, and stalked away into the hallway and out of sight.

Good enough for Simon. Removing his wallet, phone and keys from his pockets, he shucked the trousers – Alec probably wasn't going to want those back – and dug out his favourite Batman boxers.

"I'm Batman," he murmured, finding the matching socks and pulling them onto his feet. He'd killed a Forsaken. The Ravener was up for debate, but the Forsaken – that was definitely him.

"Are you decent now?" Jace called.

"Just a second!" Simon quickly found a pair of jeans and pulled them on. "There you go, my virtue is safe."

"Please," Jace scoffed. "No virtue is safe around this face." His head appeared in the doorway, and then the rest of him. "Well? Can we go now?"

"I thought you didn't want to talk to Dorothea?" Simon searched for a rucksack, and then looked mournfully around his room. There was so much he couldn't take. He wanted to grab his well-thumbed copies of _Harry Potter_ for the Shadowhunters to read, and drag his Playstation along because it would have been priceless to see Jace struggling with an on-screen demon. But either would take up too much room, never mind both. He sighed and started packing clothes like a normal person. "You seem very eager for someone who's not interested."

Jace ignored him and moved around the room, occasionally poking things. "What's this?" he asked, picking up a dark blue display case the size of a jewellery box. Behind the glass window coins glittered. "This doesn't look like mundie money."

Simon glanced up. "It's a set of Alliance coins from World of Warcraft, and _it's a collectable, put it down_."

Jace did so.

"What about this one?" he asked two minutes later.

"That's a sonic screwdriver," Simon said after checking the toy in Jace's hands. "You can play with that one, I have five of them."

Jace amused himself pressing the screwdriver's buttons, making it beep and light up while Simon packed. His notebook of lyrics and song ideas; the iPad Luke had bought him for his 17th birthday last month, already loaded up with books and movies; his old and battered mp3 player; and chargers for all of the above.

He didn't notice Jace moving over to the bookcase until the Shadowhunter suddenly asked "And what are _these_?" in a delightfully scandalised tone.

Simon looked up sharply. "Oh my God, put those _down_," he ordered, abandoning his rucksack to try and snatch the glossy manga from Jace's hands. "_Jace_."

The blonde was grinning, deftly keeping the book out of Simon's reach despite his smaller height. "_Well_," he drawled, flicking through the pages, "_Simon_. I had no idea you were such a naughty boy. Does your mother know you read these?"

Simon flushed. "I – that is none of your business," he said, flustered. "Give it _back_."

Laughing, Jace tossed the book at him, and snatched another while Simon was occupied scrambling for the first. "Oh dear, that does _not_ look comfortable," Jace smirked. He jumped lightly out of the way as Simon lunged at him and continued turning pages.

"I will murder you," Simon threatened, bright red and torn between laughing and being horrified. "I swear to God, I will kill you dead."

"Oh, please try," Jace purred. "I'll sell tickets and to go Hawaii with the proceeds." He turned the page, and Simon knew just which scene he'd found by the gut-punched expression he made.

Simon folded his arms across his chest and refused to be embarrassed. "I warned you," he said, lifting his chin.

Jace turned and blinked at him, once, like a cat, before glancing back at the page. Simon watched his face turn blank, but the blonde didn't look away or slam the book shut the way Simon had expected him to.

"Would you like to borrow it?" Simon asked, unable not to grin. "I have more."

"Thanks, but I think I'm good," Jace drawled. He closed the book with a strangely deliberate gesture, and tossed it on the bed. He was frowning at nothing.

Simon raised his eyebrows. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"No," Jace answered after a pause. Simon wondered if that were true. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the look in Jace's eyes was a little sad.

"All right," he said briskly, as though it were nothing. "Then hand me that, because I'm bringing it."

Jace raised an eyebrow. "You mean – ?" He glanced at the book, lying innocently on the bed.

Simon stretched his hand out and flexed his fingers impatiently. "Yes. Come on, hand it over."

Bemused, Jace picked it up and handed it to Simon, who tucked it away into his bag. "Thanks," he said, and deliberately walked over to the bookshelf to pick out a few more.

"I wouldn't let the others know," Jace said after a while. He was quiet, and Simon didn't turn to look at him until the blonde added "The Clave doesn't approve."

Simon felt his eyebrows shoot even higher. "You're joking," he said flatly.

"Nope." Jace sat down on the bed. "It's not quite exile-worthy, but..." He waved his hand expressively.

"But," Simon echoed wryly. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not planning on becoming a Shadowhunter, then, isn't it?" He came back to his rucksack, shoved the books in, and zipped the whole thing closed.

"You're not?" Jace asked, clearly surprised. "Why?"

Simon stared at him. "Because I have my own life," he said, amazed that Jace had thought – even for a second – that Simon would want to join in on the demon killing. "And I have no intentions of giving it up. Now come on. Dorothea's going to think we drowned in the sink or something."

Simon automatically locked the door behind them – if nothing else, _his_ stuff was still safe and sound – and then, because he was a masochist, couldn't resist asking "Why exactly doesn't the Clave approve?"

"Because Shadowhunters are a dying breed," Jace said promptly. "Less are born every year, and more die than in the year before. There aren't enough of us, and – those kinds of relationships don't produce children."

Simon wondered what Jace had been going to say, wondered what had weighted that slight pause. "So allow Shadowhunter-mundane marriages, for God's sake. That'll get the numbers right up. _And_ prevent inbreeding." He walked carefully around the Forsaken corpse. "Or, you know, stop using knives to kill demons. What's wrong with arrows? Or bullets? Distance-killing equals safer Shadowhunters!"

"Runes render gunpowder inactive," Jace explained as they went down the stairs. "It's the runes in the blades that stop the demons healing from the wounds we inflict, so we can't go without them." He paused. "But arrows are a good idea," he said thoughtfully.

Simon snorted. "Glad to be of assistance, I'm sure." The foyer was still dark, but he found his way to Dorothea's door easily enough. He knocked.

"So what are you?" Jace asked curiously, and Simon felt his stomach knot.

"I thought we went over this," he said lightly. "A Shadowhunter. Apparently. By blood, at least."

Jace rolled his eyes. "You know that's not what I meant."

Simon raised his eyebrows. "I really don't," he said wryly, although he did. He knew exactly what Jace was asking, but the little shiver of anger down his spine made him want to force Jace to speak frankly. _I'm not ashamed of myself. I'm not embarrassed. If you are then that's your problem._

"Do you like – your books had both in them," Jace said quickly.

Simon bit the inside of his cheek. "I like both," he said mildly. "We mundies call that bisexual." He shrugged. "Right now I'm in love with a girl, but if things were right I could fall for a guy. It's really not a big deal."

Dorothea opened her door, and Simon let it go in favour of more important concerns.

)0(

From what Simon could tell, Madame Dorothea's apartment was identical in layout to his and Jocelyn's. But that was the only way in which they were similar; where Jocelyn had filled their apartment with good-quality second-hand furniture and the results of her art projects, Dorothea's was a warm clutter of the esoteric and the occult. Posters featuring the zodiac and palmistry grappled for space with stacks of yellow-paged books with such intriguing titles as _The Secrets of Solomon_ and _Journey Through Tarot_.

It went without saying that Simon could hardly breathe for all the incense.

"Can you really tell people's fortunes?" Simon asked curiously, peering at a chart full of Chinese – or Japanese, for all he knew – symbols.

"My mother had great talent," Dorothea said, which Simon noted skirted the question. "She could see a man's future in his hand or the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. She taught me some of her tricks." She glanced from Simon to Jace. "Speaking of tea, young man, would you like some?"

Simon threw his head back and laughed.

"What?" Jace asked, flustered.

"Tea," Dorothea said crisply. "I find it both settles the stomach and focuses the mind. Wonderful drink, tea."

"I would love some tea," Simon said with a grin. His eyes flashed to his blonde companion. "What about you, Jace?" he asked innocently.

Jace glared at him, then drew himself up and nodded imperiously. "As long as it isn't Earl Grey. I hate bergamot."

Madame Dorothea cackled and vanished through one of the bead curtains. Simon held on just long enough to hope she was out of earshot, then cracked up.

Jace frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are a child," he decided.

Simon couldn't get enough breath to answer. He was still laughing when Dorothea returned to gesture them through into her parlour.

"Is he always like this?" she asked Jace, peering sidelong at Simon.

"Always," Jace said with a sigh. "It's very trying."

Simon subsided into giggles, managing to thank the seeress for his tea. He pounced on the sandwiches with gusto, realising at the sight of them that he hadn't eaten anything since the chocolate éclair with Clary three – nearly four – days ago now. "These are delicious," he said enthusiastically. The cucumber had just the right amount of mayonnaise and pepper, and he piled them onto his plate shamelessly.

Dorothea smiled. "I do so like a boy with manners."

Jace pointedly ignored her, sipping his tea, and Simon looked around the room. Despite the faint light, he could make out the swarm of stuffed birds and bats hanging from the ceiling in mid-flight, and the thick layers of Persian carpets beneath their feet. As well as an elegant blue teapot and the sandwiches, the table bore a stack of tarot cards tied up with a gold ribbon, and a crystal ball on a gold stand that Simon would have loved to take a look at.

"You said your mother taught you to read fortunes," Simon said when he thought the silence had stretched on too long. "Was she a Shadowhunter?"

Jace choked on his tea, and Dorothea laughed. "No," she said, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "She was a witch."

"That's impossible," Jace said flatly.

"How come?" Simon asked. He wasn't sure he believed Jace. The Shadowhunter seemed to think a lot of things were impossible that actually weren't.

"Because witches – and warlocks – are half-human, half demon. They're crossbreeds. And because they're crossbreeds, they can't have children. They're sterile."

Simon's mind immediately jumped to mules, but he thought it would be rude to make the comparison in front of Dorothea.

"All Downworlders are part demon," Jace added. "But only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It's why their powers are the strongest."

Simon frowned, thinking back. "So vampires and werewolves are part demon too? What about faeries?"

"Vampires and werewolves are the result of diseases brought by demons from their own dimensions. Most demonic diseases are deadly to humans, but those two worked strange changes on the infected without actually killing them. And faeries – "

"Faeries are fallen angels," said Dorothea, "cast down out of heaven for their pride."

"I know that story," Simon said slowly. "They were too bad for Heaven, but not enough for Hell. So they got stuck on Earth."

"It's one legend," Jace allowed. "It's also said that they're the offspring of demons and angels, which always seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixed together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to be, but they have a lot of cruelty in them. And you'll notice most of them avoid midday sunlight – "

"For the devil has no power," said Dorothea softly, as if reciting an old proverb, "except in the dark."

Simon glanced between Jace and the seeress. "Okay..." he said slowly, unsure what to say.

"Enough about faeries." Dorothea snapped out of her reverie. "It's true that warlocks can't have children. My mother adopted me because she wanted to make sure there'd be someone to attend this place after she was gone. I don't have to master magic myself. I have only to watch and guard."

Simon thought of asking what it was that she guarded, but it didn't seem any of his business – and he had the strong idea that poking his nose in where he wasn't invited in the Shadow world was a good way to have it cut off.

Jace had no such compunctions. "Guarding what?"

"That," Dorothea said, "would be telling."

Simon carefully put his empty teacup back on its saucer. He'd barely let go of the little handle before Madame Dorothea pounced on it, snatching it away and peering into it intently.

"If you see the Grim, don't tell me," Simon said, sinking back into the pink armchair. "I don't want to know."

Jace leaned forward as Dorothea turned the cup around and around in her fingers, scowling with frustration.

"Oh God, it's bad, isn't it?" Simon asked.

"It is neither bad nor good. It is _confusing_." Dorothea put down the cup and looked to Jace. "Give me _your_ cup," she ordered.

Jace clutched his cup against his chest protectively. "But I'm not done with my – "

Dorothea plucked it out of his grasp before he could say another word and splashed the leftover tea back into the pot. She peered into it, ignoring Jace's muttering. "I see violence in your future, a great deal of blood shed by you and others. You'll fall in love with the wrong person. Also, you have an enemy."

"Only one? That's good news." But Jace looked pale as he settled back in his chair.

Dorothea picked up Simon's cup again.

"There is nothing for me to read here," she said finally, clearly annoyed. "The images are jumbled, meaningless." She looked up at Simon. "Is there a block on your mind?" she demanded.

"Probably," Simon sighed. "At this rate, nothing would surprise me." He sat bolt upright. "Not that I was tempting fate or anything! Please don't smite me," he said beseechingly to the ceiling.

Shadowhunter and seeress exchanged a puzzled glance, then looked away sharply upon recognising their moment of commiseration.

"I don't actually know what that means," Simon added. "A block, I mean."

"A spell that might conceal a memory, or might have blocked out your Sight."

Simon thought about it. "I've been seeing weird things lately," he said slowly. "But...only lately. I guess it could have been wearing off for some reason?" _Could_ there have been a block in his mind? The thought was intensely disturbing. "But I don't know how it would have gotten there."

Dorothea looked unsatisfied. "Very well. Let's try something else." Lowering the cup, she reached for the silk-wrapped tarot deck. Fanning the cards with an expert snap of her wrist, she offered Simon the cards. "Slide your hand over these until you touch one that feels hot or cold, or seems to cling to your fingers. Then draw that one and show it to me."

Sceptical – although he had no reason to be, Simon reasoned; tarot cards seemed far more reasonable than demons and invisible monster-hunters – Simon ran his fingers over the cards.

His hand stopped dead about a third of the way through the fan. It was nothing as dramatic as a jolt up his arm, and the card didn't leap into his hand as if magnetised, but there was a definite tingle in his fingertips. Stunned, he pulled the card free and flipped it.

"The Ace of Cups," Dorothea said. She sounded confused. "The love card."

Simon stared at it. He had never seen it before, but he only needed a glance to know his mother had made it – with real paint, too, so that the card was heavy in his palm. The picture showed a cup held by a hand in front of a rayed sun touched with gilt. The cup was gold, engraved with lots of little suns and decorated with rubies. "Is it a good card?" he asked. His voice came out hoarse.

"Not necessarily," Dorothea admitted. "The most terrible things people do, they do in the name of love. But it is a powerful card. What does it mean to you?"

Simon thought of Clary, but the aura of the card didn't seem to fit her. His mother's painting was full of power, something hovering on the edge of terrible. It made him think of a line from the movie _The Prophecy_;

'_Whenever God needed to punish someone, or make an example, or whenever God needed a killing, he sent an angel. Did you ever wonder what a creature like that must be like? ...Would you ever really want to see an angel?'_

The first time he'd heard that, it had hit him, hard, that these creatures that were light and beautiful in popular culture were actually terrible. Not evil, not that, but...terrible. The picture of the cup felt the same.

Clary wasn't terrible. But what Dorothea had said about love... Simon wondered if what he was feeling was his own potential, the things he was prepared, deep down, to do to get his mom back safe.

He put the card down gingerly. "My mom painted it," he said quietly.

Dorothea's eyes flashed, and Simon knew she had not missed that he had dodged the question. "She painted the whole pack. A gift."

"How well did you know Simon's mother?" Jace stood up, and his eyes were chillingly cold.

Simon frowned at him. "Jace," he said warningly.

Dorothea waved Simon down. She met Jace's gaze squarely. "Jocelyn knew what I was, and I knew what she was. We didn't talk about it much. Sometimes she did favours for me – like painting this pack of cards – and in return I'd tell her the occasional piece of Downworld gossip. There was a name she asked me to keep an out for, and I did."

Simon couldn't read the look on Jace's face. "What name was that?"

"Valentine."

Simon blinked. Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. "But he's – " He shut his mouth sharply, unwilling to tempt fate.

"And when you say you knew what Jocelyn was, what do you mean?" Jace asked before Simon could.

"Jocelyn was what she was," said Dorothea, which was _maddening_. "But in her past she'd been like you. A Shadowhunter. One of the Clave."

"My _mom_?" Simon burst out, unable to keep back his surprise. He'd begun to accept the fact that his father was a Shadowhunter, because it had seemed the obvious – the only – answer. But he'd thought that Jocelyn probably hadn't known, and now – "Are you – I don't mean to be rude, but are you _sure_?"

Dorothea nodded. "It's true. She chose to live in this house precisely because – "

"Because this is a Sanctuary," Jace interrupted. "Isn't it? Your mother – " He was looking at Dorothea, not Simon, so Simon figured he meant Dorothea's mother and not his, "was a Control. She made this space, hidden, protected – it's a perfect spot for Downworlders on the run to hide out. That's what you do, isn't it? You hide criminals here."

"You _would_ call them that," Dorothea said. She turned to Simon. "Have they told you the motto of their Covenant yet?"

Simon shook his head and looked questioningly at Jace.

"_Sed lex dura lex_," the Shadowhunter answered instantly. " 'The Law is hard, but it is the Law.' "

"That's..." Simon searched for an appropriate word. "That's _horrible_."

Jace glanced at him, startled.

"What?" Simon demanded. "It's true. I'm seriously worried about any country where the motto is 'the Law is hard'. Sounds totalitarian to me. _An unjust law is itself a species of violence,_ Ghandi said that, and 'hard' edges a little too close to 'unjust' for comfort."

"Sometimes the Law is too hard," Dorothea agreed. "I know the Clave would have taken me away from my mother if they could. You want me to let them do the same to others?"

"The more I hear about these guys the less I like them," Simon said to no one in particular.

Jace, clearly unable to decide how to respond to the crazy mundie, settled for ignoring him. "So you're a philanthropist?" he said to Dorothea, his lip curling. "I suppose you expect me to believe that Downworlders don't pay you handsomely for the privilege of your Sanctuary?"

Dorothea grinned, wide enough to show a flash of gold molars. "We can't all get by on our looks like you."

"I should tell the Clave about you – "

"Hey!" Simon snapped. Both the others looked to him, but Simon had eyes only for Jace. "Back off, okay? Yes, the morality of the thing is slightly skewed if she makes them pay," Dorothea looked unrepentant, "but I've seen and heard enough to know the Clave aren't the good guys you seem to think they are. You didn't want to tell them about me when Hodge was going to. Fine. But that makes me think I don't want them to know about anybody else either."

Jace looked flabbergasted.

Dorothea laughed. "I like this one," she said.

Jace's expression hardened. He strode to one of the velvet wall hangings and tore it aside. "You want to tell me what this is?" he demanded.

"It's a door, Jace," Simon said flatly. That much was self-evident; set in the wall between two bay windows, Simon couldn't figure out where it must go, but it was clearly a door.

"Shut up!" Jace snapped. "It's a Portal. Isn't it?"

"It's a five-dimensional door," Dorothea agreed amicably, laying the tarot deck back on the table carefully. "Dimensions aren't all straight lines, you know," she told Simon confidingly. "There are dips and folds and nooks and crannies all tucked away. It's a bit hard to explain when you've never studied dimensional theory, but, in essence, that door can take you anywhere in this dimension that you want to go. It's – "

"_So cool_," Simon breathed.

"An escape hatch," Jace said coldly. "That's why your mother wanted to live here, Simon, so she could always flee at a moment's notice."

Simon frowned, reluctantly letting go of his awe at the Portal to come back to the real world. He landed with a bump. "But then why didn't she run when the Ravener showed up?"

"She wouldn't leave without you," Dorothea said softly.

A chill shot down Simon's spine. "And I left my phone at home," he whispered hoarsely. "She couldn't even call me." Guilt, anchor-heavy and poison-bitter, swept through him like a tsunami, not just in his gut and throat but stretching to fill the inside of his fingertips and his hair as well, the normal spaces not enough to contain it.

If Jocelyn was hurt – if she was dead – it was Simon's fault.

Before anyone could say something – although what they could have said to make this better, Simon had no idea – the room suddenly brightened, flooding with red light.

Simon looked up, blinking; Jace whipped out one of his seraph blades. "What is that?" he said harshly.

Dorothea rose from her chair. She looked afraid, which had Simon scrabbling for Simiel as well. "It is the alarm," she said. "Some other Shadoworlder has entered the property. My mother set the wards in case any of her rivals came to try and gain control of the Portal."

"But – " Simon protested, seeing an instant flaw in that logic.

Dorothea waved her hand dismissively. "I made exceptions for you and your mother long ago. But how did you think I knew when he," she pointed at Jace, "came here the other day?"

Simon opened his mouth – and closed it again. That hadn't occurred to him.

"Are any of your Downworlders set to arrive today?" Jace asked.

"No."

Instead of looking worried, Jace grinned. "Good." He spun the glittering knife between his fingers. "I've been feeling _antsy_."


	7. Chapter 7

Happy New Year's everybody! :D This chapter is dedicated to **mumismatist**, whose reviews always brighten my day. I can't reply directly to your reviews because you're a guest, mumismatist, but I want you to know I love and appreciate them SO MUCH. 3 I have every one of them bookmarked!

Also, I am currently hard at work on chapter 9. I intend to always stay a good few chapters ahead of what I'm posting, so there's always something for you guys. And Cassie has convinced me to give you guys a DVD Extra kind of thing between chapters 8 and 9, so there's actually a little something extra to look forward to~

Hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

Without releasing his seraph blade, Jace pulled out a slim silvery wand, the one that Simon dimly remembered from after the fight with the Ravener. It looked like ice, made, Simon guessed, out of the same crystal as the Shadowhunter knives.

"Give me your arm," Jace ordered.

Instead of handing it over, Simon pulled it in against his chest. "What are you going to do?" he asked suspiciously. Adrenalin was beginning to push the guilt away; who was coming, and how soon would it take them to come to Dorothea's door? Would there be more fighting? All urgent questions, but he glanced at Jace's Marks and thought of the dead Forsaken upstairs – which reminded him; he wasn't at all sure he could pull off that trick again. Killing it had very much been beginner's luck.

"Make you unseen. _Give me your arm_." _We don't have time for this,_ his voice said, and Simon reluctantly accepted that it was true. He extended his arm gingerly.

Tucking his seraph blade away briefly, Jace grasped Simon's wrist tightly. "This is going to hurt," he warned. "The stele will burn. Don't flinch."

Simon swallowed hard as the little wand – the stele – touched his forearm. For a moment nothing happened, as though Jace were hesitating – and then the blonde's expression firmed and –

"OUCH!"

"Quiet!" Jace hissed, but Simon was too busy gritting his teeth to really listen.

"I have never seen runes drawn before," Dorothea commented. She sounded unfairly interested, considering that Jace was literally _carving_ the rune into Simon's flesh. It took everything he had to hold his arm still instead of wrenching it away from the viciously burning _pain_ of Jace's precious little stele.

" 'Don't flinch'? Really?" he said through his teeth.

"Don't be a baby," Jace said dismissively. "Shadowhunter children get their first runes at ten, you have nothing to complain about. There." He put his sword between his teeth and rolled up his own sleeve. Without so much as wincing, he deftly drew the same Mark on his own arm; equally black and swirly and vaguely tribal.

Threads of pain wound through Simon's arm like hot wires; tentatively he curled his fingers into a fist. Up close, the black of the rune didn't look like a tattoo; it was too perfectly black, too smooth, like the sweep of calligraphy on silk. "What does it do?"

"I told you: makes you unseen and unheard. To some things, anyway."

Dorothea, at least, no longer seemed able to see them. But she kept her composure. "Lift one of the cups if you're planning to stay in here," she ordered.

Jace didn't lift the cup. Simon frowned. "Where are we going?"

"Out. Come on." He beckoned, and Simon followed, queasy with a distinctly unpleasant cocktail of fear and nerves. He couldn't even find it in himself to be excited about his own invisibility.

Dorothea's eyes glanced their way when they passed through the beaded curtain, making it rattle. Simon felt bad for not being able to say goodbye, but Jace grabbed his wrist and pulled him along before he could work out a way of letting her know.

Jace opened the front door of Dorothea's apartment slowly, peering through the crack.

"Do you see anyone?" Simon whispered.

Jace shook his head, but didn't abandon his caution. He pushed the door open just enough for them to slip out – one at a time, walking sideways – and then closed it behind them, as quietly as he could. He jerked his chin at the stairs, and Simon nodded, holding on tight to Simiel.

The two of them sprinted into the shadow of the staircase, Simon wincing at every slap of his shoes on the ground. Jace's, at least, didn't make a whisper, and Simon decided that if this was going to be his life now he was at least grabbing some shoes that wouldn't alert the bad guys to his presence every time.

They crouched low once they were hidden, and Jace put his finger to his lips.

After a moment Simon heard it too: a pair of voices, upstairs on the landing.

"Could he have killed it?"

"What, you think that wound was an accident?"

"It could have been someone else."

Jace raised his stele and began moving it, carefully drawing a sort of square in the air, angled up through the staircase. As Simon watched, the space turned clear, like a window, and Simon clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound.

They could see the landing now, complete with Forsaken corpse. Two men were standing with their back to the little window, arguing over the body. They were both in long red robes, with the hoods pushed back, but they would have to turn around for the boys to see their faces. One was thin and the other was built, thick rather than fat with short red hair; that was all Simon could make out.

_What are they?_ Simon mouthed. Jace shrugged, his eyes narrowed.

"Well, that answers that question at least," the bald man drawled. "The ward was most certainly triggered, else this," he poked the corpse with his boot, "would still be locked up nice and tight."

Simon stiffened, but Jace didn't seem in the mood to say _I told you so_. His room _had _been a trap after all.

"Yes, and the body's fresh. Let's check inside – either he's still here or the wards will give us a few more details of what happened."

"After you, Pangborn."

The two of them disappeared into Simon's apartment, opening the door as if the lock simply didn't exist.

Simon made to stand up, but Jace grabbed him and pulled him back down. "What are you doing?" the Shadowhunter hissed.

"Getting out of here!" Simon hissed back. "Shouldn't we go before they come out again?"

"Weren't you listening? They left the Forsaken here! Which means they're almost certainly involved with whoever took your mother. Now come on."

Without waiting for Simon's protest, Jace slashed his stele through the window – making it disappear – and swung out of the shadows and up and over the stair rail.

"I can't do that!" Simon called softly, annoyed at the blonde's showing off. Muttering, he went the long way around and took the stairs two at a time until he caught up.

Jace darted across the landing, but not, as Simon had expected, into the apartment. Instead he knelt down by one wall and drew another one of those windows, so they could see into the flat without risking running into the two men.

Smart, Simon had to admit.

"He's definitely been here," the red head was saying. They were in Simon's room – no surprise there. "The wardrobe's still open."

He turned towards his audience, and Jace went rigid, as still and tense as if he'd been turned to stone.

Simon frowned and mouthed _what?_ but the blonde didn't reply.

"What did he take?" the bald man asked. "Valentine thinks there's a good chance Jocelyn hid the Cup in something of the boy's. He would have come back for it."

The bottom dropped out from Simon's stomach. _Mom_. But Valentine was supposed to be dead.

_And demons aren't supposed to be real,_ he thought wildly.

The red head was frowning. "Just some clothes, books. None of the strange stuff." His gesture encompassed all of Simon's gathered memorabilia, the figurines and toys and posters, and Simon felt indignant. _It's not STUFF!_

"Hm." The other red-robe circled Simon's room. He was holding something in his hand, something that might have been another Sensor or something like it. "Wait. He was here not half an hour ago."

The wrestler's head snapped up. "He could still be close by."

"Now can we run?" Simon whispered.

"Now," Jace agreed.

They bolted, past the Forsaken and down the stairs. Simon's heart was pounding, waiting for the voices, the 'Hey you!' behind them, the bullet in the back –

He nearly tripped on the last step but Jace caught him and hauled him upright.

"It's him!"

_Crap!_ Simon risked a glance over his shoulder; Jace snarled and spun, raising his blade.

"No no no no," Simon babbled, grabbing his arm, "no more fighting today, okay, let's just _go_ – "

The two men were at the top of the stairs, and Jace and Simon were out in the open; the light was bad but not bad enough to hide them. He saw the flash of seraph blades snapping out and felt his heart sink. Not even warlocks or demons, but Shadowhunters.

That was all kinds of bad.

"Jace!" he shouted, and Jace snapped out of it, looked at Simon as if he'd never seen him before. The two of them ran, half-skidding across the marble foyer and shoving the front door open with a bang.

"Shut it!" Jace snapped, and Simon did, slamming it closed behind them.

"Come on," he gasped, "I have an idea," and he sprinted for the parking lot. The other thing he was going to do, besides getting squeaky-floor proof shoes, Simon decided as he fumbled for his car keys, was get fit, because this was a hell of a lot of exercise in one day for a proud nerd.

"Where are we going?!"

"Just come on!"

For a moment he panicked that the people who had cleared the apartment had also taken the van, but maybe they'd only seen that there was nothing registered to one Simon Fray because Eric's van was still there. "Thank God," Simon breathed, half crashing into it as he shoved the keys in the lock. "What are you waiting for? Get in get in get in!"

Jace threw himself inside and Simon did the same, fingers clumsy on the seat belt.

"Simon!" Jace snapped. The two red-robes had reached the parking lot.

"I'd like to see you do better!" Simon pushed the keys in and turned them; the engine caught. "OhthankyouGodlet's _go_!"

He put his foot flat on the pedal, and the van wasn't the most responsive of titans but it answered to that, squealing out of its parking space like a bat out of Hell.

"Out of the way!" Simon yelled, almost high on the adrenalin as he drove straight for the two men. "I will squash you like pancakes, you fuckers, PANCAKES – "

"ARE YOU INSANE?" Jace shouted, but Simon laughed hysterically and beeped the horn and didn't turn, didn't turn and didn't turn until the wide eyes realised he was serious.

"I think I clipped one!" Simon said, not so much coloured with hysteria as drowning in it. "Do I get points, I should get so many points for that – it's just like playing Gran Turismo! Except you don't run people over in that – "

"You didn't run them over," Jace said carefully. "But you should have."

"Next time I'll do better," Simon promised. "Hey, if we duel again, can I use a car instead of Simiel?"

"No," Jace said flatly, and Simon laughed and laughed.

)0(

"So what exactly are we doing now?" Simon asked a little later. Night was falling, but even in the dark Simon thought he would have noticed anyone following them. However evil Shadowhunters got around, it apparently wasn't by car. (So what did they use? It wouldn't be easy to ride broomsticks in those robes...) "Should I drive back to the Institute? If so, you're going to have to give me directions."

Jace ignored him. He hadn't made a sound since Simon's hysteria-edged laughter, lost deep in his own thoughts, and Simon was beginning to worry about him.

"We got away," he reminded Jace for the eighth time. "Seriously, I think we can count this one as a win. You can stop brooding now."

Jace did not stop brooding. Simon rolled his eyes to heaven. "Fine. You know what, I'm starving. So I'm going to pull over, and we're going to grab something to eat, and then you're going to play SatNav and direct us back to the Institute, okay? Okay then."

A few minutes later, Jace muttered "How can you possibly be hungry? You had all those sandwiches."

Simon hid his grin. "I," he said imperiously, "am a growing boy. Now shut up and let me find a good cafe. Or do you want fast food?"

They ended up at McDonald's, because Simon declared that he had earned himself a McFlurry or two. Jace didn't seem to know what to make of the ice-cream with its Oreo fragments and crumbs. He poked it dubiously with his plastic spoon.

"It's not going to eat you, _you're_ supposed to eat _it_," Simon said around a mouthful of ice-cream. They'd already shoved the greasy papers from their burgers – Simon's vegetarian and Jace's double cheese – into a rubbish bag, and all but a few of the chips had been demolished. But there was always room for ice-cream. "My God, what is wrong with you? Have you seriously never had ice-cream before?"

"Of course I have!" Jace protested. "But Isabelle's mother makes it by hand. This came out of a machine." He poked it again, with an amount of suspicion that had Simon wondering if all Shadowhunters were so paranoid.

"Jesus on a T-Rex, look, here." Simon brought up a spoonful of his own McFlurry and held it out to Jace. "See, I've been eating it, you know this one isn't poisoned. Just try it."

Jace hesitated. "It's been in your mouth," he pointed out, meaning the spoon.

"What are you, eight, who's afraid of cooties at our age? Besides, I'm a boy." Simon wiggled the spoon. "No icky girl cooties here."

With a huff of laughter, Jace leaned forward and closed his mouth around the spoon. His face went surprised, and Simon grinned. "See?"

"Taste," Jace corrected, and Simon snorted. But he felt he'd proven his point; Jace dug into his own ice-cream with gusto, and Simon polished off the last of his with distinct smugness.

)0(

The outside of the Institute looked like a grand cathedral when Simon pulled up in front of it, all leaded windows and spires.

"Let me guess: hallowed ground, right?" Simon asked as they climbed out of the van. Jace had the rubbish bag, and he nodded.

"It helps keep the Institute safe."

Jace opened the door with a key Simon hadn't noticed before. Inside they took the stairs at something close to a crawl; the day was starting to catch up with Simon, and Jace matched his pace without comment.

"Any chance of a coffee?" Simon said imploringly. "I think I'd kill for a cup right about now."

"I'm sure we can find some."

At the top of the stairs they found the elevator – Simon was so confused with regards the logistics of this place – and the two boys rode up in silence. Jace had retreated into his own head again, and Simon was busy thinking longingly of the cups of coffee his mom made on Saturday mornings; big mugs, the coffee half milk and spiced with just a tiny bit of cinnamon, just enough to be able to taste it. And sometimes Luke would show up for a cup of his own, bribing his way in with bags of sweet rolls from the Golden Carriage Bakery in Chinatown.

Remembering his last conversation with Luke, Simon shoved the memories of the man away.

When the elevator stopped, they were in the entryway that Simon remembered. Jace tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and whistled, ignoring the strange look Simon gave him.

Moments later Church materialised in a doorway, slinky and soft. His eyes gleamed like topaz. "Church," Jace said, kneeling down to stroke the cat's head. "Where's Alec, Church? Where's Hodge?"

Church meowed, then shook himself and trotted off down the corridor. He glanced over his shoulder, meowed again, and continued on. Simon would have been significantly more surprised if the cat hadn't already led him to the weapons room this morning. Clearly Church was the equivalent of Hen Wen, except a cat and not a pig.

Simon debated asking if Church could see the future, but that made him think of Dorothea, and before he knew it they were standing at the base of a tightly spiralled metal staircase that disappeared into the high ceiling. "So he's in the greenhouse," Jace said. "No surprise there."

"There's a greenhouse here?" Simon asked.

"Hodge likes it up there." Jace began climbing, and Simon hurried after him. Church had vanished, so maybe he was magical after all. "He grows medicinal plants, things we can use. Most of them only grow in Idris. I think it reminds him of home."

Simon's shoes made noise on the metal stairs and Jace's didn't, reminding Simon of his resolution. "Is it your shoes or your training that makes you so quiet?" he grumbled.

Jace smirked at him. "Both."

Simon huffed. "Well, I want a pair," he said stubbornly.

"You can't have a pair of me, I'm one of a kind," Jace tossed blithely over his shoulder. "But I'm sure we can find you a pair of boots."

They had reached the top of the staircase. Jace shouldered open a set of double doors engraved with foliage.

It was a little like opening the door to Dorothea's apartment, in that the smell hit Simon first. But instead of incense it was the warm, thick scent Simon remembered from a visit to the botanical gardens with St. Xavier's, instantly recognisable as growing things even if you couldn't put the smell of it into words.

The space they entered was so much larger than anything Simon had been expecting. "You know, when you said 'greenhouse', I was thinking of those small glass things people have in their gardens," Simon said, looking everywhere. "Not a _football field_." The enormous space was filled with trees and bushes, not little ferny things in pots – and when he focussed, he realised that not a single one was familiar. The fruits were strange colours and oddly shaped, and the shapes of the leaves were subtly _wrong_ to his eyes, as if they would change the moment he looked away.

"It's a little bit of home," Jace said, so quietly Simon almost missed it, "to me." He pushed aside a curtain of hanging fronds, and Simon followed, ducking under the plants in an attempt to avoid getting leaves in his hair.

They emerged into a cleared space that was such a blaze of colour Simon had to close his eyes for a second, half-blinded. With no pattern, the flowering blossoms were chaotic, but when his eyes settled he decided he liked the effect; messy and fun and natural. A stone bench rested beneath a tree with willow-like branches and silvery leaves, and Simon saw glimmers of fish in a still pool. Hodge sat on the bench as if on a throne, but like a very tired king. Hugo was on his shoulder.

Both of them turned as Simon and Jace entered.

"You look like you're waiting for something," Jace observed. He broke off a sprig of greenery and twirled it between his fingers. For someone who was so self-contained, Simon thought, the blonde had an awful lot of nervous habits. He was nearly always playing with something.

"I was lost in thought." Hodge stood up from the bench, stretching out his arm for Hugo. His smile faded as he got a better look at the two boys. "What happened? You look as if – "

"We were attacked," Jace said shortly. "Forsaken."

"Forsaken warriors? Here?" Hodge looked horrified, which, considering the one and only Forsaken Simon had seen, he figured was justified.

"Warrior," said Jace. "We only saw one."

"But we were told there were more," Simon added, remembering Dorothea's warning.

Hodge held up a hand. "This might be easier if you took things in order."

"Right." Jace gave Simon a sharp look, warning him not to interrupt, and proceeded to detail the afternoon's events.

"You're sure that was the name?" Hodge asked sharply. "Pangborn?"

Jace nodded. "And that's not all." He didn't look at Simon. "I recognised them. Those men killed my father."

Simon's head snapped around. Hodge's eyes were wide and shocked, but Jace's expression was a mask.

"You didn't say," Simon whispered.

Jace shrugged as though it were nothing, but Simon saw the hardness in his eyes. His strange reactions to the two men made perfect sense now – turning back to fight instead of running away, the way he'd stiffened at the sight of them.

Simon closed his eyes. And he'd teased Jace into trying McDonald's ice-cream. It seemed horribly irreverent, enough to make him wince at the memory.

"Pangborn," Hodge murmured. "It is as I feared. The Circle is rising again." He shook his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from his brain, and his voice, when he spoke, was tired, resigned. "I think it's time I showed you something."

)0(

The library was full of shadows cast by the gas lamps. Simon was sitting on the red sofa, clutching his rucksack like a teddy bear; Jace leaned against the sofa arm, inches away from Simon's arm. "If you need help looking," the blonde began, clearly restless.

"Not at all." Hodge emerged from behind the desk. "I've found it."

Simon leaned forward. Hodge was carrying a large book bound in leather, and he paged through it almost anxiously, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. "Where...were...ah, here it is!"

He cleared his throat and recited: "I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles...I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged.' "

"What. The hell. Is _that_?" Simon made a face.

"It was the loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel, twenty years ago," said Hodge. He sounded exhausted.

"Were they the Shadowhunter equivalent of Nazis, by any chance?" Simon asked.

Hodge put the book down. "They were a group," he said slowly, "of Shadowhunters, led by Valentine, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and returning the world to a 'purer' state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the Accords. They must be signed again each fifteen years, to keep their magic potent," he added, Simon supposed for his benefit. "Then, they planned to slaughter them all, unarmed and defenceless. This terrible act, they thought, would spark off a war between humans and Downworlders – one they intended to win."

"That," Simon said flatly, "was fuc – _really_ dumb." He raised his eyebrows at surprise on Hodge's face. "What? Jace told me there aren't many of you. I've already worked out that Shadowhunters must be crazily inbred, or getting there, and you use incredibly stupid tactics fighting demons. There's no way Idris could go up against the whole Downworld and win."

"They...did not realise that," Hodge said slowly. He still looked a little stunned.

"You're talking about the Uprising," Jace realised, clearly recognising in Hodge's story one he was already aware of. Simon imagined him, Alec and Isabelle hearing about this in Idris History 101. "I didn't know Valentine and his followers had a name."

"The name isn't often spoken these days," said Hodge. "Their existence remains an embarrassment to the Clave. Most documents pertaining to them have been destroyed."

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I really, _really _don't like these guys," he told his rucksack. You couldn't erase history by...erasing it. You had to learn from it, meet it head on the way German schools taught World War 2 and the Holocaust; in detail, with shame and determination that nothing like it would ever be allowed to happen again.

"Then why do you have a copy of the oath?" Jace asked, used, by now, to ignoring Simon's strange declarations.

Simon raised his head at Hodge's strange hesitation. A chill settled in his bones.

"Because," the old man said finally, "I helped write it."

Simon groaned. "Of course you did."

"_You were in the Circle?!_" Jace demanded, far more shocked. But then he, unlike Simon, was unaware that life, like stories, often had patterns you could half-predict, if you looked closely enough.

"I was," Hodge said quietly. "Many of us were." Hodge looked straight ahead, avoiding both of them. "Pangborn. Blackwell. The Lightwoods. Michael Wayland; your father, Jace."

Jace raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Hodge hesitated. "Simon's mother as well," he said reluctantly.

_That_ Simon had not seen coming; he flinched as if Hodge had hit him. _"What?!"_

"I said – "

"I know what you said!" Simon snapped. "But I'm having a problem with you claiming my mom belonged to some kind of God damn Nazi group. _Also_," he added as something else occurred to him, "if you were in this Circle, and so was my mom, _then you knew from the minute I got here who she was._" He glared. "All that bull about whether my mom or my dad was a Shadowhunter – wanting to call in the Clave – you knew all along!"

Jace's eyes went wide, and then hard. "Is that true?" he asked softly. Dangerously. The light of the lamps caught and fractured on crystal as one of his seraph blades dropped into his hand. "Why didn't you say so before, Hodge?"

Hodge stared at Jace's sword, clearly taken aback. "I – when I realised that Simon knew nothing, I thought it best that he not learn – "

"Really?" Jace's voice was the velvet slide of a sword sliding free of its sheath. "Or are you still working with the Circle?"

"No!" Hodge protested – angrily, Simon thought, but the man could be faking. He reached into his pocket for Simiel. "If Simon did not know, then – then I did not want to be the one to tell him – "

"Tell me what?" Simon demanded. He stood up, leaving his bag on the sofa. "_What about my mom?_"

"That," Hodge said tiredly, "she was Valentine's wife."


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you guys so much for all the amazing reviews! :D Chapter nine has finally been sent off to my beta, so you can have 8 now. I hope you all enjoy it!

* * *

"Give me one good reason why I should believe anything you say," Simon said coldly.

Hodge looked at him sadly. "I have already been punished once for working with Valentine," he said quietly. "I would not do aught to earn such punishment again."

Jace's eyes widened, and Hodge dipped his head. "You are thinking of the curse that binds me here, aren't you? You always assumed it was a vengeance spell cast by an angry demon or warlock. I let you think it. But it is not the truth. The curse that binds me was cast by the Clave."

"For being in the Circle?"

"For not leaving it before the Uprising," Hodge corrected. "As your father did." He glanced at Simon. "As Jocelyn did."

Jace was frowning. "But the Lightwoods weren't punished, were they?"

"There were extenuating circumstances in their case," Hodge explained. "They were married; they had a child." He smiled wryly. "Although it's not as if they reside in this outpost, far from home, by their own choice. We were banished here, the three of us – the four of us, I should say; Alec was a squalling baby when we left the Glass City. They can return to Idris on official business only, and then only for short times. I can never return. I will never see the Glass City again."

Jace stared. He was seeing a side of his tutor that he never had before. Simon didn't have the same kind of emotional attachment. "My heart bleeds," he said coldly. "Poor you. You were going to slaughter those Downworlders, and you were punished for it. I think you got off lightly." He stooped and grabbed his rucksack, swinging it over his shoulder. "I'm done."

"You're – where are you going?" Jace demanded.

"I'm _leaving_." Simon didn't take his eyes off Hodge, but he wanted to. He wanted to look at Jace and drink him in, because the sudden, sharp realisation that Simon might never see him again made him shake. But Hodge was the one who scared him. "I don't trust a single word coming out of your mouth," Simon told him, his voice shaking. Anger or fear, or both; Simon couldn't tell. "You didn't tell me about my mom. You've got a pretty good motive for striking back at the Clave, it sounds like. And you're connected to the people who seem to want me dead. So yeah, I'm pulling a Nightcrawler and blowing this joint."

"Simon, please." Hodge's face was stricken. "I swear to you, my time with the Circle is in the past. If, as I suspect, they are rising again, it is something I have no part in. As for Jocelyn – it was clear she had her reasons for keeping your heritage from you. I meant only to respect her wishes."

"Words are easy," Simon said. "But actions speak louder." Hodge hadn't been allowed to act on his true personality and desires, because he'd been bound in one place – his choices weren't his own. He _could_ be the kindly old tutor he seemed; or he could be raging at his confinement, kept from acting on his Valentine-condoned hate of Downworlders only by the Clave's curse. With everything going on, Simon wasn't willing to take the risk.

Hodge hadn't needed to lie about Jocelyn.

"Your mother was also a member of the Circle," Hodge reminded him. "You seem to hold no grudge against her for it."

"I know my mom," Simon said bluntly. "I don't know you." He turned and walked for the doors.

"It isn't safe!" Hodge cried behind him. "Valentine is searching for the Cup, Simon, and from what you and Jace overheard he thinks you have it. You cannot leave the Institute!"

Simon ignored him and pushed the door open without looking back. He closed it carefully, quietly – and the moment he heard the lock click shut he ran, bolting down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him. Terror whipped at him, wild and unreasoning and pounding in time with his heartbeat as he turned corners and hurtled down stairs, desperately listening for any sign of somebody following him.

There was something _wrong_. Hodge was lying, or had lied, and had too much of a connection to Valentine for Simon to feel anything close to safe here. Those Shadowhunters at his apartment hadn't been after a friendly chat, not with those seraph blades, not working for the Shadowhunter Hitler. Not with the Ravener and the Forsaken they'd sent after him.

Simon was in so far over his head he was a breath away from drowning.

His bag bounced on his back as he skidded into the foyer with the elevator. Panting, thanking the creators of DC and Marvel that he hadn't gotten lost, he slammed his hand on the button to call the lift up from the depths, and winced at the creaking shriek of old metal as it pulled itself up. Had anyone heard that?

His heart stopped as a hand closed on his wrist and whirled him so that he fell back against the elevator door and it was Jace, with the same wild, frenzied look in his eyes as when he'd seen Simon covered in blood and for a second Simon was sure, he was 110% _positive_ that Jace was about to kiss him. He felt the certainty of it all the way down to his bones, thrilling and electric and frozen.

"You – " Jace's voice was hoarse; it ran down Simon's spine like a razor. " – can't go. Hodge is right, Simon. If Valentine is looking for you, then this is the only place you're safe."

"I'm _not_ safe here," Simon heard himself say. The lost kiss, the kiss-that-never-was – its loss hit him like a blow, left him breathless. But he was mad, clearly. Jace was straight. One of those awesome straight guys confident enough in their sexuality, masculinity to flirt back and not freak out, but – not really interested. Ever. "Weren't you listening?"

"I heard that Valentine is looking for the Mortal Cup, and thinks you have it!" Jace snapped. Simon swallowed. "Do you know what he wanted to use it for, after he'd won the Uprising? He was going to make Shadowhunters out of mundane children, build himself a child army, even though the Cup _kills_ nine out of ten of those unprepared for the change." He shook his head angrily. "It's the key to his gaining an utterly loyal, fanatical army, a potentially limitless one, _and he thinks you have it._"

Simon closed his eyes, because Jace was almost terrifyingly gorgeous when he was blazing with righteous rage. "Jace," he said quietly, "how does Hodge know Valentine wants the Cup? Last I heard, everyone thought it was destroyed."

He felt Jace's fingers go tense against his wrist, and opened his eyes.

"Exactly." Simon wrenched his wrist free, and shoved open the elevator door.

"Simon – Simon, _wait_." The blonde caught the door and held it open – and jerked back with a hiss when Simon slapped his fingers.

"Can you explain it?" Simon demanded. "Is there a Shadowhunter spy network, are there demon-killing 007s? Is there a reasonable reason Hodge would know what the _hell_ is in Valentine's head?"

"What? No, there are no Shadowhunter spies – I don't know, maybe! We can _ask_."

"And he'll tell us? Like he told me about my mom?" Simon jerked the door closed and locked it. "I'm not staying here so he can hand me over to some f-freaking maniac."

"You're being an idiot, he wouldn't do that – by the Angel, _Simon_."

Jace sounded so frantic that Simon's hand looked for the lock automatically, but the elevator was already moving, and there was no stopping it. The last glimpse he had of Jace was the blonde's fingers pressing against one of his runes, whispering something quick and quiet.

Simon realised, then, that Simiel was still in his hand. He hadn't given it back.

)0(

Alec was waiting for him when he stepped out of the cage down below.

"Are you here to stop me?" Simon asked calmly. He was proud that his voice stayed even.

"Jace doesn't want you to go." Alec was sprawled in one of the chairs, seemingly at ease. "But _I_ say if you want to get yourself eaten by Ravener demons, it's no concern of mine."

It was amazing, Simon thought, that even as Alec was giving him what he wanted, he still managed to piss Simon off. "What is your problem?" he demanded. "Ever since I showed up, you've been acting like I'm the Superman to your Lex Luther."

Alec's face twisted. "Do you ever get tired of speaking in tongues?"

Simon gaped. "How can you – oh God, you people _really_ need to read some comic books, your ignorance is criminal." He bit his tongue to stop himself from explaining Superman in epic detail. "What I mean is, what did I ever do to you?"

"And you call me ignorant." Alec's eyes flashed as he leaned forward. "You swan in here as though you slew Lucifer, you insult our weapons and our tactics – yes, I know about that," he snapped before Simon could speak. "And that's another thing: you distract Jace. You make him forget what he was born to be. You make him forget who he _is_, and then you flaunt him like a trophy, like a piece of meat. You're a damn incubus sowing chaos wherever you go, so _no_, I'm not going to stop you from leaving. I hope you never come back."

"...Wow," Simon said slowly. "No, seriously, tell me what you really think."

"I just did," Alec snapped.

Simon shook his head. "It's a figure of speech," he said quietly. His throat felt tight. "But, well, you're entitled to your own opinion." He uncurled his fingers from Simiel's little silver cylinder. "I was going to leave this on the doorstep, but would you give it to Jace for me?"

"Give him – " Alec's voice cut off as Simon held out the seraph blade, and the expression on his face... Simon had never (thank God) seen anyone stabbed, but he thought that if he did, they would look like Alec did now: gut-punched, raw shock and a pain Simon couldn't imagine warring for control of his features.

"Where – where did you get that?" Alec's voice was ragged, and Simon had to resist the urge to whip Simiel out of sight, since it clearly (inexplicably) hurt Alec so much.

"Jace gave it to me," he said hesitantly. "I mean – I think he was just lending it to me, so I figured I ought to give it back – "

"_Jace gave it to you?_" Before Simon could answer Alec shook his head. "No. He wouldn't do that. He knows – " He cut himself off, closed his eyes, and sucked in a breath. When he looked back at Simon, his eyes were hard as stone. "Give it here," he ordered coldly.

Abruptly Simon really, _really_ didn't want to. But it had been his idea, something he'd thought was a good one before Alec went and screwed it up. He told himself to be the mature person, and he dropped it into Alec's hand, ignoring the wrench of regret as he did so.

Alec's hand tilted almost before the blade touched his palm, crying out and wrenching his hand away. Simiel clattered onto the floor, and Alec – Simon stepped back because Alec looked ready to murder him.

"I'm sorry – " Simon tried, but Alec just snarled. He wrenched at the cuff of his sleeve, pulling it up until it covered his hand – Simon glimpsed a stripe of angry burn, the exact size and shape of an unextended seraph blade – and snatched Simiel up from the ground. "I don't know how that – "

"_Get out_," Alec hissed, and Simon flinched away from the rage in his eyes. "You have no right to be here, you have _no right_ to a seraph blade – !"

"Its name is Simiel," Simon said, angry and cold and unthinking, and Alec swung at him.

In that moment Simon would have given anything to have been able to catch Alec's fist in his own; he would have loved the surprise on Alec's face before he, Simon, unleashed a hitherto-unsuspected can of kick-ass. But Simon was more a Dave Lizewski than a Hit Girl and he couldn't even duck out of the way in time; Alec's fist smashed not into his jaw but his throat, and Simon went down like a ton of bricks.

He landed on his side – he would be grateful, later, since landing on his bag might have crushed the electronics – and immediately scrabbled at his neck because he couldn't _breathe_, he didn't even care about the pain because there was no _air_ and everything was panic, blinding, screaming panic, no thoughts no logic just silent screaming because he couldn't make a sound couldn't _breathe_ –

Something grabbed his arm, pulling it away from his neck, and he lashed out clumsily, freaking, everything was getting dark at the edges and he didn't want to die, not now not ever it was staring him in the face and he couldn't –

A new pain, this one fiery and familiar, and he gasped. _Gasped_: his lungs inflated and Simon coughed violently, sucking in huge gulps of incredible oxygen and blinking tears out of his eyes.

Alec knelt next to him, his face pale and terrified. A stele in one hand explained the rune-pain at the base of Simon's throat, but Simon didn't care; he was shaking with excess adrenalin, too shell-shocked and wrecked for awe or interest or even gratitude.

" – didn't mean to hit you so hard," Alec was saying, his voice tinged with something like hysteria, a diluted version of the force shaking Simon to pieces. "I'm so sorry, I just, I just snapped – it bonded to you, and then, its name – "

"Get the fuck away from me," Simon said shakily, and Alec's babbling cut off. He looked stricken, and, wow, look at all the fucks Simon _didn't give_.

"You need to go to the Infirmary," Alec said quietly, ashamed.

"Get. The fuck. Away from me."

"But – "

"_GO!_" Simon screamed, and felt no satisfaction when Alec flinched. "I don't want your fucking help, I don't want the Infirmary, I don't want your precious seraph blade!" His voice was shaking, and he told himself it was fury. "_GO THE FUCK AWAY!_"

He didn't look, didn't watch as Alec stumbled to his feet as if drunk. Simon felt as though his organs were trembling, shaky and horrible and sick, and he had to get Alec away because he refused to let the Shadowhunter see his tears, and sobs were already catching in his throat, hot and painful. He kept missing a breath and panicking all over again.

Eventually he realised that Alec was gone, and that he couldn't stay here on the floor. He'd thought that staying on his feet against the Ravener was difficult, or swallowing his fear and going for the Forsaken, but they were nothing compared to the effort of getting up off the ground now. His muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti, he was still shaking, and he wanted so badly to just sit and cry through the adrenalin. But Jace or Hodge could walk into the foyer at any moment.

He got up. He settled his rucksack between his shoulders. He went outside and found the van; he unlocked it and got in. He turned on the engine and started driving. His hands shook and everything felt raw and jittery.

He didn't drive very far; in a clinical tone of thought he recognised that he probably wasn't safe to operate heavy machinery. He pulled over and switched off the engine.

Then he put his head on his arms and cried.

)0(

When his tear ducts ran dry, Simon called Clary.

"It's me," he said raggedly when she answered.

"SIMON!" He winced and held the phone away from his ear. "Simon Robin Fray, where the hell have you _been_?!"

"It's Batman, not Robin," Simon complained.

"You don't deserve to be Batman," Clary told him. "You've been missing for days! The police came looking for you and your mom! I was starting to think you'd died!"

Simon flinched. "Well, I haven't," he said quietly.

She must have heard something in his voice, because she paused. "Are you all right?" she asked worriedly. "Are you with your mom?"

"No. My mom's – mom's missing. I don't know where she is." He took a deep breath. "Would it be okay if I came and stayed with you?"

"Of course," she said instantly, and he felt a wave of relief and gratitude. "Do you need my mom to pick you up?"

"No, I've got Eric's van. I can drive."

Clary snorted. "Thank goodness for that. Eric hasn't shut up about it since you disappeared. You know all the instruments are still in the back, right?"

Simon looked over his shoulder into the back, and groaned at the sight of Millennium Lint's assorted music-makers. "Oh, God, I'm a dead man. I completely forgot about them."

"I think the current consensus is that they're going to sew you into a suit of bacon and drop you in a shark tank," Clary agreed mildly.

Simon blinked. "That's...specific."

"Don't worry, none of them can sew." He could almost feel all the questions she was swallowing – _what happened, where were you, are you really okay?_ – but instead she only added, "Call when you're close and I'll have a pizza waiting," and she hung up before he could tell her he loved her.

)0(

She really did have a pizza waiting, one of the homemade dough bases the size of a bedside table that her mom made in bulk and froze for occasions "Just like this," Clary declared. She'd covered it in tuna and mozzarella and tomato sauce, and Simon tore into it, absolutely ravenous.

"Did you not eat while you were gone?" Clary asked in amazement.

"No – I mean yes, I did, just – I'm really hungry," he said lamely. The adrenalin of his encounter with Alec had left him achingly hollow and starving, even after the McDonald's with Jace.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise, you idiot." She sat down opposite him. "Have you called Luke yet?" she asked suddenly. There was something in her voice, something...

...Something Simon didn't notice, because swallowed hard and nearly choked on a string of cheese at the reminder of Luke's existence. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I did," he managed hoarsely. Choking reminded him far too much of his trachea crushing inwards under Alec's fist. "But he – he wasn't interested."

He'd expected her to be shocked – this was _Luke_ they were talking about, the man who had been the father figure in both their lives – but she only frowned. "Are you sure?"

He thought back to the phone conversation. "Very," he said bitterly.

Clary chewed her lip. "He was frantic when he came around here looking for you," she said slowly.

"He – what?" That didn't jive with what Luke had said to him at all. _I'm not your father,_ he remembered, the unfamiliar coolness shocking into Simon like a knife. "Really?"

"Yeah. He thought you were staying with me, and when I told him I hadn't seen you..."

"When was this?" Simon asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"This afternoon." She looked at him oddly. "Why, does it matter?"

"No," Simon said slowly. "I just wondered." This afternoon – that made it _after_ the phone call this morning. Why had Luke come looking for him? He sure hadn't sounded as though he gave a damn. "I know – I know I've got a ton of explaining to do, about everything, but can it wait until the morning? I'm going to pass out soon, and then I'll get tuna on my face from head-desking in this delicious, delicious pizza."

Clary slapped his shoulder playfully as she pushed out of her chair, gathering up the plates. "It can wait," she agreed, and then paused. Something in his expression must have touched her, because her face went soft. "All of it can wait," she said gently, and Simon had never loved her as much as he did in that moment – overwhelmingly, adoringly, the way religious people loved God.

She must have seen that in his face too, because she put the plates down by the sink and crossed the kitchen to him. Without a word she wrapped her arms around him from behind his chair, resting her head on his shoulder.

Simon held her arms around his chest and closed his eyes, just breathing her in.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispered hoarsely.

She kissed his cheek and let him go. "Get killed by ravening orc hordes," she said cheerfully.

"_One time!_" Simon protested as she laughed. The sound filled him up with warm brightness, like ribbons of sunlight. "It was _one time_, I was distracted, and nothing will convince me that you did not set it up."

"It's true, I am empress of the puppet-masters," Clary said mildly, with a very unangelic smirk. "But you will never prove a thing." She flicked his ear. "Now up to bed. Come on, before you fall over."

"How can I fall over when I'm in a chair?" Simon asked the ceiling.

"I'm sure you could manage it. I have great faith in your abilities."

"That would sound far more encouraging if you were complimenting my ninja skills instead of my clumsiness," Simon commented. He got up and stretched, joints popping.

"We have to be quiet," Clary told him, lowering her voice as they left the kitchen. "Mom's asleep. She wanted to see you," she added, "but she has to be up early tomorrow."

"It's fine," Simon said softly. "I'll see her when she gets in tomorrow."

Clary and her mom had made up a camp bed in the corner of Clary's room, and Clary went back to get a glass of water while Simon dressed for bed and brushed his teeth. Which were, he noticed, peering into the mirror, _foul_. That was what you got for not brushing them for three days, though. Gross.

It was such a relief, being here. The familiarity of it, the easy warmth as they got into their separate beds and switched the lights off... It was as if Simon had been turned to stone by a curse, and now the spell was broken, everything in him relaxing into supple warmth. It wasn't as good as being home with his mom – his heart twinged, wondering where Jocelyn was, if she was all right – but it was Clary.

For the moment, that was good enough.

)0(

He woke gasping in the middle of the night, from nightmares of his mother's screaming face and his throat collapsing under Alec's fist.

Without asking – or being asked – without any words at all, Clary climbed out of her bed and into Simon's. The blankets rustled as she settled behind him, slipping her arm around his waist the way she had when they were kids.

He had no more nightmares that night.

)0(

"You're going to think I'm insane," he told her the next morning, warming his hands around a mug of coffee. "As in, Alucard from _Hellsing_ insane."

"That's pretty crazy," Clary said warily.

Simon sighed, nerves and – incredibly – something close to embarrassment curdling the coffee in his stomach. "Just – pretend I'm telling you the plot of a new anime, okay?"

In the books, Simon thought to himself, they nearly always skipped over the explanation. They said something along the lines of 'he told her everything', and left it at that. They didn't mention how weirdly embarrassing it was to claim supernatural experiences for yourself, how acutely aware you were that the chance you would be believed was miniscule. Even when an author did write the explanation – the reiteration, for the reader – they gave the explainer smooth, quick words: there were no overindulgence of 'um's or 'and then's. Fictional characters never experienced frustration at being forced to give the quick-notes version of the moments with the most punch – because how could he put into words everything he'd felt with the Ravener demon? Or the Forsaken? Or running for his life from bad guys who almost certainly wanted to do bad things to him?

And not in any kind of fun way, either.

He didn't so much finish as trail off, keeping his eyes firmly on his coffee rather than see the disbelief on Clary's face.

"Well, it's not Alucard insane," she said finally.

Simon's head snapped up. "What?" he asked stupidly.

She shrugged. "Well, you know – Alucard has that whole suicidal thing going on. And he's a sociopath. You should pick your comparisons a little more carefully." She took a sip of her coffee. "Also, I followed Luke after he left yesterday and overheard a _really _weird conversation that suddenly makes a lot more a sense."

"You _what?_"

And then it was Clary's turn to explain – much more calmly and eloquently than Simon had – what she'd been up to while he was gone.

"It was Luke," she told Simon, "the way he was acting yesterday. He came around looking for you, like I said, demanding to talk to you – but then when I told him you weren't here he tried to convince me that you were staying with relatives out of state."

"I don't have any relatives." Unless, Simon thought suddenly, he had Shadowhunter family he didn't know about. Did his mom have brothers and sisters? Were her parents still alive? Were there people in the world bound to him by blood, that he'd never even suspected existed?

"Exactly!"

So she'd followed him –

"How, by trailing him in a trench coat and fedora?"

"No, genius, I took my mom's car."

"Did your mother give you permission to stalk Luke in her car?"

"That," Clary said archly, "is irrelevant to my story."

Luke had gone to his apartment, which lay over his bookshop –

"Imagine that, he _went home_ –"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember mocking you when you spun me a story about _demons_."

"...Carry on."

She'd snuck in through a window –

"A _window_?"

"Would you stop interrupting!"

"No, hang on – I don't understand. You can't have been so suspicious that you thought _breaking and entering_ was a valid response!"

"You didn't hear him," Clary said darkly. "When he was talking about you – looking for you. He was _frantic_, desperate to find you – and then he tried to laugh it off. Damn right I was suspicious."

"But he was in the house," Simon protested helplessly. "Why didn't you wait till he left? That would at least make a kind of sense, you could go through his stuff or something." He shook his head. "How did you even climb through a window? How did you _do_ that?"

"It was a downstairs window," she admitted. "And he wasn't in the house. I'm not that stupid, Simon, _of course_ I waited until he left again. I followed him because I thought he'd lead me somewhere else, maybe wherever _you_ were. And then he left and I went in."

"_Broke_ in."

"_One_ more interruption, Fray..."

But Luke had come back "before I'd found anything." Clary hid, and that was when things had gotten incredibly strange.

"You'd broken into Luke's house, and it only got strange _then_?"

"FRAY."

There were two men with Luke, men who called him _Lucian_ and _Graymark_. "They talked about some kind of war," Clary said. "One they might have been in together, ages ago? It wasn't really clear. Something about an uprising."

They'd said horrible things – talked about skinning people, and made mocking implications that Luke was some kind of monster. " 'Still recognisably human', one of them said, as if it was a surprise."

"They were looking for you, Simon," Clary said quietly. "They wanted to know if Luke had seen you, and he said – he asked if Valentine had sent them to find you."

Simon felt cold. "The Shadowhunter Hitler is looking for me?" Hodge had said the same, he remembered sickly.

Clary nodded unhappily. "They said that your mom had hidden something, and Valentine thought you might have it or know where it was." She looked at him expectantly.

Simon ran a hand through his hair, his stomach in knots. "There's this magic cup," he said lamely.

Clary rolled her eyes. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Straight out of D&D. It can turn normal people into Shadowhunters, apparently, and Hodge said that's what Valentine's after."

"They did mention a cup," Clary said slowly. "But I thought they were – I don't know, I didn't think they'd be so obsessed with a _cup_. I thought it was code for something." She shook her head quickly, making her red hair whirl around her face. "Anyway, that doesn't matter. They – I think they know where your mom is. They said that if Luke knew where 'it' was, Valentine would swap your mom for it."

It was as if, for just one moment, the planet stopped spinning. For just a second everything was still and silent and cold, sharp as crystal and tense as an indrawn breath, and Simon's heart stopped.

_She's alive. Mom's alive. Somebody knows where she is and she's ALIVE._

Someone pressed the _play_ button, and the world slipped back onto its axis. With it came logic, unfortunately brutal: _you don't know that she's alive. Some psycho megalomaniac has her – if he even does, he could be lying to get what he wants, to trick Luke into giving him the damn cup. But if he DOES have her, she might be hurt. She might be dead._

Thinking the words – even as coolly and dispassionately as he could – ripped his breath away as surely as Alec's fist had. There _was_ no 'cool and dispassionate' when you were contemplating your mother's death – especially when that death wasn't far off in the future, asleep in her bed, but at the hands of some genocidal ex-husband.

_What if he hurts her? What if he tortures her to make her tell him about the cup? _

He shoved away from the table and bent over his knees, clutching his head. "I'm going to be sick," he whispered. His nightmares last night, his mom screaming – was that real? What if that was happening, what if it was happening _right now_ –

"Simon!" Clary was kneeling beside him, her hands on his shoulders. "Stop it, stop thinking about it – look, Luke knows these guys, maybe he can help – he can tell the police – "

"Really?" Simon snapped. "Is that what he said? Because he told _me_ that it was mom's fault and he wasn't getting involved, that he wouldn't help. So I'm not all that sure we can depend on him right now."

From Clary's face, he knew that whatever Luke had said, it hadn't been an unreserved leap to Jocelyn's defence. "There's still the police," she said firmly. "I can tell them what I saw."

"You couldn't see Jace," Simon reminded her, suddenly tired. _Trust me, little boy, the police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see_. "Valentine's a Shadowhunter too. They'll never be able to find him." He breathed in shakily, trying to stop seeing last night's nightmare, playing on a loop behind his eyes. "God, _Luke_. Luke's one as well. My whole life has just..."

Wordlessly, Clary leaned up and hugged him. "It'll be okay," she murmured as he hugged back fiercely. "It _will_."

_How?_ Simon wanted to ask. _How is it going to be okay? This isn't a video game or a book, this is REAL LIFE. Kids don't defeat evil adults in real life. People get HURT in real life. People DIE. _

He wasn't equipped for this. He didn't have superpowers or a 17-die score intelligence, and if it had been abruptly revealed that he wasn't (quite) human, well – that didn't seem to have any practical uses, since he also didn't have the first idea about Shadowhunter runes and how they worked, or any way to draw them, or Hell, while he was whinging about how unfair the world was, he didn't have a lifetime of martial arts training either. Or a pony.

On the other hand, he knew who did. Well, not the pony – but the rest of it. A whole country of people, from the sound of it, who would be _eager_ to hunt Valentine down once they knew he was alive.

If it _was_ Valentine, and not someone else using his name. But if Luke had fought in the Uprising he would know the real Valentine, maybe? From what Clary had said, Luke hadn't been surprised, or even very scared or angry, to be contacted by the man.

_So: Shadowhunter Voldemort, as well as Shadowhunter Hitler. Nice. _

_Does this make me Harry Potter or Churchill? _

"I can practically hear you thinking," Clary said lightly. "You should stop that."

"You know you love me for my brain," Simon mumbled, but he pulled out of her embrace and straightened up with a sigh. His back had been starting to protest, anyway.

Clary got to her feet. "You can't fret about any of this, anyway," she told him. "You have far bigger things to worry about."

"Than _my mom_?" Simon asked, more sharply than he'd meant to.

But she didn't flinch. "Your mom is missing," she pointed out. "Eric, on the other hand, is very much present. And on the warpath."

As an attempt to change the subject, it was pretty clumsy, but Simon understood what Clary wasn't saying: that there was no point tearing himself apart over something he couldn't fix. Not yet, anyway. Not until he had a plan. "I'll get my phone," he sighed, allowing the conversation to be diverted. "If he kills me, I want to be cremated."

* * *

Next up, a DVD extra chapter! Want to take a guess at who will feature?


	9. Interlude: Simiel

So, here's the DVD Extra/Interlude I promised! I hope you guys enjoy it; Cassie and I worked VERY HARD on this one. Clues are dropped! Also, I know it's short, but chapter 9 is nearly double the length of a normal chapter, so I think that'll make up for the shortness of this one. Enjoy!

* * *

_Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_

Alec lowered the _parashu_, panting. The Indian battle-axe was rarely a convenient weapon in a real battle, but there was nothing like it for exorcising demons.

So to speak.

He bared his teeth at the wooden mannequin in front of him, seeing the mundie boy's face on it. The mahogany wood – dark and solid, to better prepare training Shadowhunters for those demons with tough skin or scaled armour – was gouged and splintered, no longer even recognisable as a humanoid figure, but he could still hear Simon's voice saying _'Its name is Simiel.'_

_Simiel._ Alec hefted the axe and swung viciously, hacking at the figure's chest. _Simiel_. It echoed in his head, driving through his heart like the blade it was. He would have screamed at the dummy if he hadn't been worried about anyone overhearing him. He didn't want to have to explain why he was hurling the worst words he knew for _mundane_ at a training mannequin.

_Simiel._

His face twisted into a snarl and he attacked the dummy's head, hacking at it, _rending_ it. He threw everything he had at it, all his rage and hurt, every ounce of his strength; he wanted the mundie eviscerated, eradicated, _undone_. He should have left Simon's trachea crushed, should have let him –

"I think it'll be a good boy now, Alec," Jace drawled from behind him. "Really. Please don't hurt it anymore."

Alec swung the _parashu_ two handed with everything in him; the head of the axe cleaved through the thick wooden trunk and sliced it in half.

Jace frowned. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind."

The upper half of the dummy fell to the ground. "Not everyone does what you want all the time," he snapped.

"No, but most of them do," Jace said easily. He was in full gear – black leather sheathing him from ankle to throat, twin crossed belts slung across his hips for his seraph blades, stele, and half a dozen other sharp, dangerous things. None of which were as sharp and dangerous as Jace himself. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Alec stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Jace shrugged liquidly. "Don't look at _me_," he told Alec's obvious shock. "Isabelle said I should ask."

Alec felt bitterness clog his throat. Of course Jace hadn't thought to come ask on his own. He probably hadn't even _noticed_ –

"And of course, I can feel your, shall we say, _loathing_, from the other side of the city," Jace said blandly. His golden eyes were lazy, almost sleepy, but it was a lion's trick to put prey at ease and Alec wasn't going to fall for it. Jace was never more deadly than when he was pretending not to be. "So." He crossed to one of the walls in four quick steps, lifted down a Chinese _dao_ sabre, and flung it at Alec.

Who caught it easily by the hilt, bemused. "You want to spar?"

Jace grinned. "You didn't actually think I wanted to _talk_, did you?"

On any other day, Alec probably would have laughed. Today he lunged.

"Ah, so it's for me," Jace commented, lightly ducking out of the way. "I wondered."

How could he be so blasé? Alec wondered in a rage, spinning on his heel to face his _parabatai_ again. He'd dreamed – and hated himself for dreaming – of receiving a named seraph blade from Jace. For _years_ it had been his worst, most shameful fantasy.

And Jace had handed over Simiel – _Simiel_ – to a mundane he'd known barely a full _day_.

He snarled and whirled the _parashu _and _dao_ for Jace's neck; leapt, slashed, over and over in increasingly rapid, vicious thrusts and cuts as his _parabatai_ bent and swayed like a willow, dodging Alec's blades with moves no mundane could have accomplished outside of an action film.

"Grab a weapon and fight me!" Alec forced through gritted teeth. "Stop _running!_"

"You know I just _love_ to oblige you," Jace drawled. He swept his body backwards, his torso bending parallel to the ground beneath a blow that would have cleaved his skull. "But I think you need to work off some steam. I'm _helping_."

"You are not helping!" Alec dropped the _dao_, heedless of the clatter it made against the floor, and gripped his axe with both hands, baring his teeth. "_You_ – _you're_ my damn problem, Jace Wayland!"

"I guessed," Jace said wryly. He didn't seem at all unnerved by the _parashu_, even knowing that Alec had the build to wield it well – and it whipped up Alec's rage, that unthinking dismissal, of everything Alec was and could be and wanted, wanted so Angel-damned badly. "Are you going to tell me what it is I've done now, or are we going to dance all night?"

Alec nearly howled with frustration. _How can you not know?_ he shouted silently as he lunged and swung, two-handed, throwing his shoulders behind it. _Damn you to Hell, Wayland, __**how can you not know?**_

Jace swayed, barely seeming to move and yet the _parashu_ never touched him. It was like fighting a ghost – only this wasn't a fight at all, Jace hadn't drawn a single weapon and was making no move to defend himself. As if he thought he didn't need to, as if he _knew _he didn't need to –

Alec did not snarl, although he wanted to. He feinted instead, moving the way only a Shadowhunter could, weightless as a feather and solid as steel; he felt Jace's intention through the _parabatai_ rune and was there waiting for him, axe in hand, raised, ready –

"_Kabshiel!"_

A high, pure note rang out through the room. The air trembled with it, and Jace stood there like a statue, his face utterly expressionless as he bore his seraph blade, seemingly without effort, against the down-strike of the _parashu_.

Alec dropped it and whipped out his own, cross-drawing with a snarl. "Duma, Himeros!"

Jace's eyes widened but Alec gave him no time; he scissored his blades and Jace had to drop to the floor, roll and spring to his feet, plucking another seraph blade from his belt. "Rachiel," he murmured, and then he, too, had a matching pair of shortswords, gleaming like glass.

Alec snapped out, twisting like a dancer, Duma slashing across Jace's throat and Himeros lunging for his heart. His _parabatai_ parried both blows and they were off, a glittering whirl of blades like a hailstorm, flashing like ice and crashing together like thunder and the glass bells of Faerie. Again and again and again their swords met, crying out in crystalline song, blade kissing blade the way Alec could never, would never kiss Jace –

_Look at me look at me look at me!_ Alec cried silently as they whirled and spun, parted and came together like the dancers at one of Alicante's balls, light and beautiful as lovers. _See me! _

_I'm right here, I'm right here and I love you –_

As if Jace had heard him, the blonde missed a strike and Alec swept his legs out from under him, as smoothly as if they'd choreographed it. Jace went down with a grunt and Alec was _there_, Himeros's edge laid tight against Jace's throat, pinning his _parabatai_ to the floor with his hips. They were both breathing hard, and Jace's eyes were wild, the way they always got during a fight, shining and mad and it would be so easy, so easy to just lean down and –

So easy that it killed him –

"Feel better now?" Jace asked softly, and Alec could have hit him for the cold, hard kiss of reality, one with teeth and cruelty in it.

"You gave Simon a named blade," he said instead, just as soft, and his muscles shook with rage, not strain.

Jace stilled, and Alec _watched_ his face shut down and become maddeningly blank. "Ah. Is that what this is about?"

With a snarl, Alec shoved himself upward, away from the sweet torture of Jace's body pressed tight against his. "You gave him a _named blade_," he repeated furiously. _When I'm right here, bleeding out for you every single Raziel-damned day. When I'd cut my heart out for a named knife from you._ "You staked a claim on a mundane you've known all of 24 hours. What in Raziel's name were you _thinking?_"

Jace pushed himself up onto his elbows, but made no move to stand. "We were walking into a probable ambush – "

"Don't give me that," Alec snapped. "You didn't give him the unbonded spare I _know_ you carry, and if you'd meant it as _daiosask__ō_ you would have reclaimed it after the fight." He wanted, masochistically, for Jace to say it, to admit what he'd done, but his voice still broke on the words. "It was _armask__ō_. Wasn't it?"

Jace said nothing, and it was infuriating and heartbreaking, because Jace's words never failed him, not ever, and that they did now was as clear a confession as Alec had ever heard.

"And you meant it to be all along," Alec realised. "I wanted to believe you just forgot to take it back, but you didn't, did you?" He curled his hands into fists, and didn't know what it was he wanted to hit – Jace, or Simon's throat again. "You really think you're in love with him."

_I spent so long telling myself it was all right, that it wasn't my fault you couldn't love me. And now, and now to learn that you could have, and chose __**him**__ instead –_

Jace's eyes glittered, but he stayed silent. Alec couldn't tell if it was defiance or something else, something more dangerous and more painful.

Alec's heard Simon's voice in his head, the casual, easy way he had said _"Its name is Simiel."_ As though it were nothing, because he had no idea what it meant that Jace had chosen a name for the blade so close to Simon's own. That Jace had _named a seraph blade after him_. "You don't even know him!" Alec protested furiously. "He's spent most of the time since you met _asleep!_"

_What can he do that I cannot, what is he that I am not?_ his heart cried.

"Is this because he's another guy?" Jace asked, something like contempt in his eyes. "Can't stand to look at me now, Alec?"

Alec almost laughed. _Yes, yes it is, but not the way you mean. _"No," he said harshly. "It's because you're panting like a dog after some quailing put you barely know, because you _think_ you're in love with a curséd _athumos_ – "

He didn't even see Jace move; the blonde was on the floor and then he simply _wasn't_, a snarled "_Rachiel_" and Jace had the blade against Alec's throat, a sharp stinging pain as skin broke and Alec knew, he _knew_ that Jace had let him win their spar.

"Don't talk about him like that," Jace said, and Alec had never heard his voice like this – low and soft and cold, hard and glittering as diamond. "I watched him face down a Ravener untrained, watched him kill a Forsaken to _save my life_, so don't _ever_ call him _athumos_. Or we are going to have far bigger problems than your little temper tantrum."

"Why?" Alec demanded bitterly. "Would you really raise a hand to your _parabatai_? For _him?_"

"No," Jace snapped. "I would defend the honour of any impugned Shadowhunter the same way – "

"_He is not a Shadowhunter!_" Alec yelled, ignoring the inherent insanity of that statement because Jace would _not_ defend anyone's honour, he would sit back and enjoy the show with popcorn. "He's a _mundie_!"

"He killed a Forsaken with a seraph blade." There was pride there, pride and a wild, triumphant kind of satisfaction that made Alec want to scream, because he knew who it was for and he couldn't bear it. "He killed one of the Shadow World and bonded with his weapon. By the old Law, he's a Shadowhunter."

"He's a bedamned _athumos_ whether you like it or not," Alec hissed over the stab of pain in his chest – because that same Law disqualified him, Alec, from the Shadowhunter ranks, and didn't Jace see that, didn't he realise that by bestowing the rank on Simon he stripped it from his _parabatai_? – "and _he doesn't deserve your_ _**armask**__**ō**__!_"

Far from lashing out as Alec half-expected, Jace's eyes narrowed, turned sharp and intense. It made Alec swallow nervously, being the focus of that searching gaze. It felt as though he spent every waking moment trying to make Jace see him – but now he felt stripped naked and found wanting as realisation broke over his _parabatai_'s face like dawn over darkness.

"What did you do?" Jace asked quietly. He lowered Rachiel from Alec's neck, and Alec honestly couldn't read his expression – shocked and angry and dreading and wary. "_Alec_."

Alec lifted his chin defiantly. "You had no right to give it to him."

"_What did you do?_"

_I almost killed him_, Alec thought. _I didn't mean to, but you broke my heart without even being in the room and I couldn't stand it._

He didn't say that, though. Instead, wordlessly, he pulled Simiel out of his pocket, heedless of how the crystal burned his fingertips. The pain was barely a pinprick compared to the one in his ribcage.

And then, deliberately, he tilted his hand and let it fall.

Jace _moved_, something raw and desperate on his face as he lunged to catch it, but Alec snapped out his fist and smashed it into Jace's wrist, blocking him, feeling a burst of dark satisfaction as the seraph blade clattered and chimed against the floor.

"Look at what this is doing to you," he said harshly. "You're pathetic. This isn't you, Jace! You're not – "

The floor slammed into his spine without warning.

"You stole a seraph blade," Jace said softly, dangerously, and Alec couldn't see the blonde's face through the dazed pain in his back but he could feel it, feel Jace's simmering rage through the _parabatai_ rune that bound them. "You took another's _armask__ō_, Alec. Anyone else would report you to the Clave."

"So do it," Alec spat. He shoved himself up onto his elbows, refusing to take this lying down. He bared his teeth. "Let's see what they have to say about you giving a named blade to an _athumos_."

Jace's face hardened. "Say it once more," he said softly. "Just _once more,_ Alec."

And Alec...didn't. He closed his eyes, unable to bear it one second longer.

He heard Jace leave and didn't try to stop him. When he eventually pushed himself up off the ground, Simiel had vanished from the floor, and Alec couldn't find it in himself to be surprised.

Heartbroken, and raging. But not surprised.

* * *

**NOTES**

Kabshiel is the angel of grace and God's favour.

Duma is the angel prince of dreams.

Himeros is the angel of unrequited love.

Rachiel is the angel who governs sexuality.

_Daiosask__ō_ is a word of my own creation, cobbled together from bits of ancient Greek, and is intended to mean something along the lines of battle-union or -bond. I'm not telling you what _armask__ō_ means yet, you'll find out when Simon does.

_Quailing put_ is a Medieval British/French insult; _quailing_ means fearful, and _put_ means vile.

_Athumos_ is another ancient Greek word; in this verse it's a dirty word for mundane, and translates as something like 'spiritless'.


	10. Chapter 10

HEY EVERYONE! I'm sorry this chapter is late; remember my rule about not posting a chapter before the subsequent chapter is finished? Well, the chapter after this one was giving me trouble, and the hubby's not been well, and my beta and I have been carefully coaxing a new story into being. BE EXCITED; it's gonna be epic. AAAAAND, there is now a trailer for this fic, made by yours truly! Although I can't seem to embed the link here. If you type City of Shadows into youtube, you should hopefully find it!

Anyway, this chapter is insanely long - twenty A4 pages! - and I think you'll all love it.

* * *

"What do you mean, _we have a gig_?"

"I mean, _we have a gig_," Eric said, far too calmly for someone who had arranged for Millennium Lint to perform while their lead singer and all their instruments had been MIA. "The guy at Pandemonium put in a good word for us. We're playing – "

" – Tomorrow night at Vatican, yes, I heard you the first time." Simon ran a hand through his hair. "I just didn't believe it!"

"Believe it," Kirk muttered.

"We _tried_ to talk him out of it," Matt added darkly. "But..."

"But it's Eric." Simon glared at him, and Eric shrugged carelessly.

"Look, what's the problem? You're here, we've got our instruments back... Everything's fine!"

"The _problem_," Simon said, forcing himself to speak levelly, "is that my mom is _missing_. I'm not sure I'm up to perform."

"Maybe it would be good for you," Eric offered. The hint of apology in his tone mollified Simon a little bit – but only a little. "You know...get your mind off things."

Simon stared until Eric winced. "Okay, bad choice of words. Sorry. But, seriously. What else are you gonna do; mope around writing emo shit?"

"No, that's your job." Simon sighed. But what _was _he supposed to do? He wondered unhappily. Go back to the Institute? And tell them what – that Valentine was alive, as they'd been starting to suspect, but Simon had no idea where he was? That his mom's oldest friend was a Shadowhunter too, but more than ready to sell Simon and Jocelyn down the river?

_Maybe they could interrogate Luke. Find out what he knows._ Simon chewed his lip, his stomach in knots.

"Okay," he said reluctantly – and swiped his hands in front of him when they cheered. "Quit acting like house elves I just gave socks to! And show me the set list." He glared at Eric again. "You'd better have sorted it out already, Mr I-am-so-prepared."

"But of course." Eric produced a sheet of paper like a magic trick, and Simon was not nearly as surprised as he should have been.

Twenty minutes later he and Eric were arguing fiercely while Clary lectured Matt and Kirk on the importance of the Female Gaze, which from having heard it before Simon knew meant playing up the sex appeal so any girls in their audience could have something fun to watch. He would have liked to veto Clary's suggestion of shirtlessness, but he was a little busy.

"Get this through your head," he forced through gritted teeth. "I can't start with _Earthquake_, Eric! It's a screamer song, it kills my voice!"

"Because it's a killer song!" Eric said triumphantly, as if Simon had just surrendered the argument. "It's the perfect opening!"

"Yeah, and then I'll be sub-par on _every other song of the night!_ The answer's no!"

For a moment, Eric's grin faltered, but then it came back even more strongly than before. "Look, the problem is the warm-up, right? 'Caus you can't get your voice ready for the screamer stuff _and_ the normal songs?"

"Not easily." Simon narrowed his eyes. "Not without longer than I usually get to warm-up, anyway."

Eric spread his hands. "So why don't we _just_ do the screamer stuff? It's not like we're playing Death Metal or some shit, it's not super-screamer. It's all perfect club stuff. Look, what if instead of..."

The two of them bent over the set-list draft again, wielding their ballpoint pens like swords in their verbal duel. But they both knew that Eric was going to win: Simon was insanely proud of _Earthquake_, and they all knew that he'd been longing for a chance to perform it properly. They swapped out _Step Up_ for_ Courtesy Call, Shapeshifter_ for _The Dark, _and then debated some of the slower songs.

"They specifically said they wanted a few romantic songs in the mix," Eric insisted, but Simon was dubious.

"It's a club, don't they want people dancing? Fast music, fast dancing, people get thirsty and buy drinks?"

"Slow dancing is still dancing, I guess?"

"It gives them a break," Kirk suggested when they asked the others what they thought. "The clubbers. They get their breath back, and then stay longer."

"Instead of getting tired and going home," Matt agreed.

Simon sighed. "All right then. But if this explodes in our faces, I'm blaming you," and he jabbed his finger in Eric's chest.

Eric sniffed. "Acceptable," he said grandly.

Leaving Kirk and Matt to occupy Clary, Simon wrote down _Crush_ at the end of the set list.

Eric raised his eyebrows. "You sure?" he asked quietly, the playful idiocy abruptly wiped from his voice.

Simon took a deep breath. "Yeah," he answered, just as softly. "She's...yeah." His stomach was in knots just thinking about it, nervousness coiling cold and sick like a finger touching the back of his throat. He fiddled with the pen, staring down at the paper. "My mom...her being gone, it's just...put everything into perspective." Jocelyn gone, probably taken by a genocidal madman. Watching the Forsaken nearly kill Jace. "What if something happens to me tomorrow, and I never said anything?"

"Then you're screwed, because we're performing tomorrow _night_," Eric reminded him. "So try not to get run over by a car before then, okay?"

Simon laughed. "I'll do my best."

)0(

It weighed on him, though. Not just his decision to finally sing _Crush_ – although that made him freeze up like a deer in headlights whenever he thought about it. But more pressing was the feeling that he was forgetting his mom. Letting her down by allowing himself to be distracted.

_Maybe I was overreacting_, he thought that night, when the lights were off and Clary was asleep on the other side of the room. _Maybe Hodge really _doesn't_ have anything to do with Valentine anymore. _Who else could help him but Shadowhunters? And where else could he find Shadowhunters but the Institute?

_I could talk to Dorothea again._ But she hadn't really been willing to help, too afraid of the Clave. Ultimately the seeress hadn't told him anything important, like where his mother might actually be found, and Simon doubted that a second conversation would be any more helpful.

_There's Luke._ But Luke was, if not quite friendly with Valentine's people, not about to go up against them, either. What if he handed Simon over to Valentine in exchange for Jocelyn? Right now Luke seemed far less trustworthy than Hodge.

Under the blankets in his camp bed, he scrolled through the contacts on his phone, feeling his heart clench a little more at each useless name. There weren't even that many of them: it wasn't as though Simon had a lot of friends outside of Clary and Lint. There were a few fast-food places whose numbers he'd saved, _because TOMO sushi is going to be able to face down the Shadowhunter Hitler_ –

He paused, staring at a new entry in his contact book that he _knew _he hadn't made himself.

'_The Best Night of Your Life.' _

_ExCUSE me?_

After a moment's consideration, he had to suppress a grin, because he had a pretty good idea of who would pick up the phone if he called. As quietly as possible, he slipped out of bed, past Clary and out of her room, and down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sure enough, the voice that drawled, "Booty calls are between six pm and two am, you know," was instantly familiar.

"I wasn't aware that you had business hours," Simon grinned. "Would you like me to make an appointment?"

"Oh, it's you." Far from sounding disappointed, Jace's voice was suddenly amused. "What _are_ you doing calling me at this hour, mundane?"

Simon shivered. _Mundane._ He wanted to hate the contemptuous implications of the word, but that right there was the real reason he didn't want to hear it: the slow, lazy way Jace said it. Worse now, with his voice husky from sleep. "You did put your number in my phone," he pointed out.

"So I did," Jace said agreeably. "But it's – " A moment while Jace presumably checked the time. " – four in the morning. So – and I never thought these words would pass my lips – please tell me you're on the run from Valentine. That's the only thing I can think of worth waking up this early for."

"The only thing?" Simon asked lightly. "I'm disappointed in your imagination. You really need to read more."

Jace laughed, low and sultry. Simon wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or if Jace's default setting was – well. _Best night of your life_.

_Straight,_ he reminded himself.

"I called because I was curious," he found himself saying. "There was a mystery. It was keeping me up."

"Oh?"

"Mm." Simon ran his fingers over the kitchen counter, grinning. "There was a strange new number in my phone, and I couldn't work out whose it was."

"What?" Jace asked, scandalised. "Was it not helpfully named, in such a way as to make it obvious who the number must belong to?"

Simon bit back a laugh. "Not really," he said mock-dismissively. "Until you picked up, I had no idea. I thought it might be Sebastian, actually."

There was a pause. "And who," Jace drawled, "is _Sebastian_?"

"A brief acquaintance from a con last Summer." Simon paused, waiting for Jace to reply. When he didn't, Simon grinned. "You know, a guy could almost think you were jealous," he said lightly.

"I beg your pardon, I was trying to work out what kind of con you and your friend could have run together." Simon could almost hear his smirk. "You have a cute little face, I'm sure you find it very easy to convince naive grandmothers to part with their money in dodgy investment plans."

Simon raised his eyebrows. "What are you – " Then he got it, and groaned. "Oh, Jace. _Jaaaace_."

In the quiet, with his phone pressed to his ear, Simon could have sworn he heard Jace's breathing hitch, ever so slightly. "Yes?" he answered. Even with so short a word, it sounded like – almost as if – Jace was – breathless, his voice gone low and husky again, and Simon shivered, biting his lip.

"You know, it's unfair to tease," he said raggedly. "You know what you look like. What you sound like. I have to think you're doing it on purpose, and that's just not cool. Teasing the guy who likes dick. That's practically..." He couldn't think of an appropriate word. All he could see was Jace in bed, with that body straight out of Simon's fantasies and that quick, mocking mouth.

On the other end of the phone, Jace chuckled. "Sorry," he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. Simon's fingers tightened on his phone, his mouth dry. "Was there something you wanted, really?"

"Y – " _You_, Simon almost said. _God damn it all, I want you_. He swallowed hard. "Y – es. Yes." He sucked in a breath to steady himself. "I'm performing tomorrow night, at this place called The Vatican. I was wondering if you'd want to come?"

"A date?" Jace sounded delighted, in the way of someone hearing a fantastic joke. "I knew it. You want to kiss me, don't you?"

"I want to do a lot more than kiss you." It didn't just slip out; he purred it, the way he did a similar line in one of his songs, as if his mouth were against a mike and not a phone. He froze, unable to believe it, but before he could stammer out an apology he heard Jace's breath catch, and with more than surprise; liquid heat slammed down his spine at the sound and he thought, _fuck it._

"Does that get you off?" he asked huskily. "Do you like that, having the bi mundane panting after you? Do you like it, is it fun, wrapping me around your finger and watching me squirm?" He laughed softly, quietly, thrilled at Jace's little hiss, the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. "You do, don't you? You're terrible. But you know, I think I like it too." He closed his eyes, shutting out the kitchen so he could imagine Jace's face, shocked and raw with unfamiliar hunger.

"Because every time you tease me," he murmured, "I imagine returning the favour. Not with words, like you do." Jace was definitely breathing harder. So was Simon, for that matter. "But with my mouth, my mouth and my hands. Putting them all over you. Stringing you out until you're shaking, until you can't even breathe." He purred. "That's how _I_ tease, Jace. By bringing my partner to the edge over and over until they can't remember their own name." He smirked. "How does that sound to you, Shadowhunter?"

"Like I should ask what it is you do," Jace said breathlessly down the line.

"Hm?" Simon ran a hand through his hair, breathing out shakily. He felt flushed and predatory.

"Your performance." Simon had forgotten all about it. "This isn't some kind of sex club you're taking me to, is it?"

Simon laughed. "No, you idiot. Just the normal kind. I'm a singer, not some kind of sex worker."

"Pity," Jace murmured. "But I'll have you know, I don't put out for anything less than a five star dinner."

The velvety darkness flared inside him, and Simon closed his eyes. "Liar," he purred.

For a moment, the other end of the phone was silent, and Simon wondered if he'd gone too far, crossed too many lines in the space of too few minutes.

And then Jace breathed out shakily and Simon had to clutch at the counter to stay on his feet as the sound nearly sent him to his knees. _Fuck_, he thought, dazed and amazed. No one – no one had ever hit him so hard before.

"Not," he managed, "that I am taking you to dinner. _Or_ on a date." Best to get back to safe ground, he thought, before Jace really did freak out. Simon was amazed that he hadn't already; could only assume that Jace's quick tongue (_don't go there, Fray_, he told himself) and sarcastic wit was keeping his head above the water. "Because that would be inappropriate."

Jace laughed. It sounded a little strained. "Right. Of course. So why _do_ you want me there?"

"I was hoping we could talk. About Valentine," Simon added quickly, before Jace could make some quip about how they were talking now. "And – and my mom." The memory – the reminder – was like cold water waking him up. What the hell was he _doing_, flirting while his mom was missing? And with a freaking straight guy, no less.

Although he was beginning to have his doubts about that.

He gripped his phone tightly. "I need to find her," he said quietly, and his voice was far hoarser than it had been purring sex down the phone. This mattered a hell of a lot more.

"You know something." Jace was instantly serious, all hint of sultry heat wiped away as if the last few minutes had never happened. "Tell me."

Simon had no idea how Jace had guessed – how he knew – but he didn't hesitate to tell the Shadowhunter what Clary had discovered. It felt like lancing a wound, laying out all the evidence and his fears in front of Jace, in front of someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who had promised that they would find Jocelyn.

The only one who had.

"We'll be there," Jace said when Simon trailed off. The blonde's voice was cool and hard, like ice or crystal – like the material the seraph blades were made from, Simon thought. Immutable.

"We?"

"Alec and Isabelle will escort me into your den of iniquity," Jace drawled, that damn smirk back and audible. "For my own safety, of course. No one expects you to be able to keep your hands off me."

At the mention of Alec, Simon's throat went tight, and he reached up to touch his neck. There had been no bruising, no ache left after the healing rune, but he _remembered_, so clearly that there might as well have been. "You should leave Alec at home," he said. "I doubt he'll want to help out anyway."

"I know he took Simiel from you," Jace said after a pause. "He had no right to do that. But – "

Simon thought about saying it, tried to shape the words on his tongue. _He nearly killed me._ _He put his fist half-through my throat and crushed my windpipe, and I nearly died. _But it was too unreal. The words tasted like a line from a bad script, and Simon felt like a bad actor, unable to find the way to deliver the words properly, so that they didn't sound pathetic, humiliating, cringe worthy.

It was bizarre that _he tried to kill me _could feel cringe worthy, but it did.

"Do you trust him?" he asked instead.

"With my life," Jace said instantly, and Simon wanted to laugh, wanted to ask _and what about with mine?_ "He's my _parabatai_. I trust him beyond death itself."

"Mundie," Simon reminded him. "I have no idea what that means." Except that Jace sounded like he meant it. Simon wondered what it was like, to have that kind of unshakable faith in something, to sound so certain and sure when speaking of another person – or of _anything_.

"_Parabatai_," said Jace. "It means a pair of warriors who fight together – who are closer than brothers." He paused as if searching for the right words. "Alec is more than just my best friend."

For a second Simon didn't get it – and then his eyes widened and he cursed silently, slapped his forehead with the base of his hand. Jesus Christ on a T-Rex, no wonder he'd been getting weird vibes off Jace!

"I'm going to have to apologise to Alec," he groaned, and for just a moment that overwhelmed the crushing disappointment. "Aren't I? _Damn_ it, everything makes so much more sense now."

"What? Why?" Surprise, and then wariness. "What did you do?"

Simon frowned at the phone, then held it back to his ear. "Maybe Shadowhunters go about things differently, but among mundanes it's generally considered impolite to flirt with someone else's boyfriend," he said wryly, ignoring how his insides clenched at the words. _Of __**course**__ he's taken, you idiot – how could he not be? _

"Who has a boyfriend?" Jace asked, bemused.

Simon sighed. "I'm not going to tell your precious Clave," he assured him. _Closer than brothers_ – _more than just my best friend_ – what was that, except a circumspect way of saying what Simon should have guessed from the start? "Don't worry."

"You're making even less sense than usual," Jace told him.

It was suddenly horribly, terribly sad that Jace couldn't say it, couldn't be honest even with someone from outside his closed-off, homophobic little world. That even in private conversation with someone he _knew_ couldn't possibly judge him, Jace still felt the need to hide in the closet.

_And he wonders why I have no desire to become a Shadowhunter._ Even Alec's hatred was easier to understand and forgive, now, knowing this. What had been going on behind the scenes – had Alec felt threatened, jealous of Jace's attention? _He called me an incubus, _Simon remembered. At the time it hadn't really registered as anything beyond an insult, but – incubi were sex demons, he knew that much. _An insult a Shadowhunter might use if you were screwing with their relationship_, he figured.

_He still shouldn't have nearly killed me, though._

"I should get back to bed," Simon said quietly. "It's really late." He rubbed his fingers over his eyes under his glasses. "Will you be able to find the place, tomorrow?"

"I think you mean today," Jace said blithely. Simon glanced at the clock and grinned despite himself. "To answer your question: yes, I know where Vatican is. It's one of the places where Downworlders mix with mundanes. I've been there before on patrol."

Simon sighed. "Of course it is," he muttered. "Great. Well, I'll see you guys there, I guess. Night."

"Good night, Simon."

)0(

When he woke up again, there wasn't any time to think about the night's conversation. He and Clary had to get over to Eric's for practise first thing, stopping only to grab a Starbucks coffee for everyone. After the last few days, and with another performance coming closer by the minute, Simon felt the splurge was justified.

Not that anyone was grateful; they were too frantic. Like Pandemonium, Vatican had all-ages nights; unlike Pandemonium, if your face and clothes weren't up to standard, Vatican's bouncers didn't let you in. It was as prestigious as an all-ages club could get, and a gateway drug – so to speak – to much more attention.

They had to freaking _rock_ tonight.

)0(

"We have to freaking _rock _tonight," Simon declared, back-stage minutes before they were due on. "Rock like Ben Grimm."

"Like Terra," Clary offered, and Simon nodded because Teen Titans would always be the best thing about Cartoon Network, and screw the haters.

"Like Terra," he echoed. "Exactly. We have to be _awesome._ We will _be_ awesome." He glared around the group. "I will hear no arguments."

"How much coffee did he have?" Matt asked Clary in a stage-whisper.

Clary held up three fingers. Matt winced. Simon ignored them both.

He was trying especially hard to ignore Clary, which was difficult because she was being stupidly beautiful again. She was going to be singing with them – just a little, a few lines in the opening song – and she had spent far longer than usual getting dressed because of it, in an effort "not to disappoint". She was a vision in blue velvet and steel-capped boots, and the glint of amber from her silver thumb-ring kept flashing in the corner of Simon's vision.

How she thought she could disappoint anyone, Simon had no idea.

"You don't need to worry," Eric said reassuringly. "We're good. We've practised, you're warmed up, Clary" here he dipped his head, like a knight to a lady, "has deigned to ensure we are all properly dressed – "

"Don't remind me," Kirk muttered.

" – in short, _we're ready_. So relax." Eric grinned. "You weren't even this nervous before Pandemonium, and we rocked that. We'll do it again."

_I didn't sing _Crush_ at Pandemonium_, Simon thought, and tried to shove down the wave of icy panic the thought elicited. To distract himself he went and peered out at the stage, leaving the others to psyche themselves up.

The sight that greeted him was a little intimidating. Vatican was larger than Pandemonium – _much_ larger. The ground floor was a huge square, with a stage at one end for bands, and a bar at a right angle to it. There were lights and smoke machines, two DJ platforms on perpendicular walls, and everything was black with gold accents. Hundreds of candles flickered in little niches in the walls, behind plastic windows, and glittering chandeliers – Simon guessed they were glass instead of real crystal – flashed with neon fire every time they caught the strobe lights. Two more floors of wide balconies could be reached by spiralling metal staircases set against each wall, and they, like the ground floor, were heaving.

So many people. And Tony Stark on a stick, the acoustics! The club's manager had pointed out the dozens of powerful speakers that would project their music into every corner of the building, but still! It was a little terrifying, the thought of filling all this space with his voice.

He hoped the fear wasn't making him sweat. Clary had forced one of Eric's shirts on him – a white, skin-tight thing with sleeves that ended just below his elbows. A sweeping design of wings, woven out of red and blue lines like veins and arteries, rose up his chest and spread over his arms, and honestly he would have been more comfortable with his Tony Stark shirt with the LED arc-reactor.

'_You're a rockstar now, Simon, you have to look the part.'_

'_Tony Stark is totally a rockstar. And without any need to flash his nipples!'_

'_Don't be dramatic, I can't see your – oh.'_

'_...'_

'_Just kidding, I really can't see them. Stop fussing!'_

Sometimes he thought about murdering Clary. Just occasionally. Although she had also stolen one of Matt's black leather jackets for him, which was much more appropriate for a rockstar and hid his possibly-visible nipples, so he might let her live.

He wondered if Jace was already somewhere in the crowd.

He jumped when someone touched his elbow, but it was only Clary, pulling her headset microphone down over her hair. "Jumpy," she commented, adjusting the mouthpiece.

"Demons are real, I think I have a right to be jumpy." Simon pulled away from the edge of the stage, back into the wings. "You look beautiful, by the way."

Clary glanced down at her outfit with a small smile. "Thanks." Her blue velvet dress had been a gift from Jocelyn, bought on one of their mother-surrogate-daughter outings. Simon had never seen her wear it before – Clary was more of a shirt-and-jeans kind of person – but it suited her, made her look like a girl songs were written about. Wide straps led into silky fabric that hugged her upper body comfortably, without being overtly sexual, and then dissolved into a loose sapphire-coloured skirt that ended just below her knees. Net tights full of holes vanished into thick, round-toed boots covered in buckles, and long armwarmers – swirls of light brown leather over yellow silk – sleeved her arms from wrist almost to shoulder. She looked more like the band's lead singer than Simon did, in his opinion.

"Really," he insisted, his heart in his throat. "You – you're beautiful. You're going to knock them dead."

She looked at him then, really _looked_, and he wondered what she saw. An idiot in a too-tight shirt? Her best friend? Or someone that wasn't quite human?

"Thanks," she said quietly, and then Kirk called for them to get their asses in gear and it was time to hit the stage.

)0(

The moment he had his mike in hand Simon's fears were swept away. He forgot about his ridiculous clothes, and the crowd, and Jace: Matt and Eric brought in the intro and Simon _howled_ "Get _DOWN!_" like he was on fire, like the words were tongues of flame flying from his mouth.

He forgot himself.

"_I saw shawty dancin' on the floor_," he purred, and there, he saw Clary in the crowd, a sapphire jewel in the dark in that dress. "_I'm kind of nervous to approach her though_..." He snapped close to Eric, gave the next words to him confidingly. "_She's so stylish, like a supermodel – Should I meet her?_"

"_Yes I think you oughta!_"

It surged through him, the laughing rush of it, and they loved it – through the flash and spark of the lights he saw delighted, grinning faces and that just made it perfect, made it e_asy_ to lean forward and gift them his song, his voice, the thrill pounding through his veins.

"The needle _dropped_,  
My track was hot,  
We began to _rock_,  
Our eyes~ were locked –

_I love your song_ –  
Yeah, girl, sing along –  
She said _DJs make my heart ache_,  
I said _Baby watch the place shake like an earthquake!_"

They smashed into the chorus, all four of them, and it was _glorious_, wild and screaming like a free-fall and pulling the crowd in with them, down with them. To hell with coaxing the audience into the feel of a song; Simon _demanded_ their hearts, felt himself backed up by Eric's drums and Matt's wailing guitar, by Kirk's near-magical keyboard and Clary's presence in the crowd. He wanted to laugh because demons were real but in that moment, _in that moment_ Hell's gates couldn't have stood against them, against the force he had at his back and roaring like light out of his throat.

"_Drop, that, eight-oh-eight  
The walls be, gin, to, shake  
It's too much for, the, club, to, take –  
It's-shakin'-like-an-earthquake!_

"_Dev, as, ta, tion from the sounds, I'm, mak, in',  
And there's no, escape, ing from the bass – "_

"_It's-shakin'-like-an-earthquake!_" The other three hissed on their own.

Simon smirked and purred into the mike –

"_Ten point oh on the rich-ter scale,  
Shake-it-like-an-earthquake –  
Move your tail!"_

They did. Holy Angelina Jolie, did they ever. Lint had this place pounding like a heartbeat, and Simon wanted to laugh, wanted to crow with triumph because _they had done this,_ _HE_ did this, wrote the words and the music to infect the feet of the people who dared listen to them. It infected _him_, a virus that made him move and a fever that made him howl, fierce and wild and so damned _alive_.

"_It's rumbling, crumbling –  
All the way down~  
It's tumbling, fumbling,  
You love-that-sound~"_

He looked for her, found Clary's eyes and she was grinning, half-laughing as she called into her mike, as her voice boomeranged through the club –

"CAN YOU TURN UP THE BASS?"

"_Sorry girl I can't hear in this place!"_

"I HAVE A REQUEST THAT I'D LIKE TO MAKE!"

Simon smirked. _"Well, what you wanna hear girl? Shake-like-an-earthquake?!"_

Matt's guitar wailed and they crashed through the chorus like a comet, trailing fire and showering sparks over the upturned faces; Vatican's lights flashed like falling stars, blue-red-gold-pink-white, and Simon slashed his arm down and the others went quiet, almost dead – _"Yo! It's not loud enough! Pump up the track!"_ – just Eric on the drums playing soft and silken for Clary singing alone, right there in the audience.

"_Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down –  
Now build it _up_, build it _up_, build it _up!"

The crowd went quiet as they realised that the band was focussed on something in their midst, that one of _them _was singing. They looked for her, but Clary didn't quail even as people started to realise. Simon was so proud, grinned so wide it hurt.  
"_Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down –  
So shake it _up_, shake it _up_, shake it _up!

"_Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down,  
Now _break_ it up, _break_ it up, _break_ it up –_

_WOOOOOOOO!"_

Lint jack-knifed into the chorus again, quick and clean like the cut of a blade – and Simon howled again, his voice braiding with the instruments into a flash of aural lightning, electric and screaming –

"_Shake it on dooooown – shake it on dooooown – shake it on dooooown – "_

And he fell to one knee with the force of the sound tearing out of him, clutching at the microphone in his hand like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from going up in flames –

"_MOVE YOURSELF WHEN YOU HEAR THAT SOUND!"_

The music cut off sharply, the last notes hanging in the air as Simon dared to look up, breathing hard. His heart stuttered as he took in the silence, the graveyard-quiet; Vatican's lights still played over the walls and people, but he couldn't hear a thing. Everyone was just staring.

_Oh shit_, he thought, panicking, _we fucked up – they hated it –_

The crowd _roared_, a crashing wave of sound that nearly knocked Simon over, and he couldn't believe it, forgot to look confident and sexy like a rockstar in favour of just _gaping_ at them all – _Jesus Christ in high heels_ – all of them _cheering_ Lint, screaming approval, and he had never, ever expected this.

It was freaking _amazing_. Exhilaration swept over him like a shot of coke, a fierce, golden joy that stretched his mouth into a stunned, triumphant grin. He laughed with it, shooting off a two-fingered salute from his temple as he shoved himself up to his feet and spread his arms to take in the whole stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, sweeping a bow with the mike in hand. "Millennium Lint!"

They laughed. They cheered. Simon saw Clary whooping in the crowd, and no – not even Hell could stand against this feeling in his chest.

He grinned, and slammed them into the next song.

)0(

When they called break, and Simon stumbled down off the stage soaked in sweat, Clary ran to him and he didn't even think: he picked her up and spun her so that her skirts whirled and her hair trailed like fire.

"Simon!" She shrieked, but not a bad shriek – she was laughing, laughing with him, "Put me _down_!"

He obliged, grinning, and almost leaned in to kiss her. But he remembered, at the last moment, that despite the ecstatic rush burning through his veins they _weren't _actually together, and you didn't kiss people without permission. Not unless you were some kind of dick. So he didn't. "You were awesome!" he said instead, letting go of her hips. "With _Earthquake_, seriously, I don't know what we'd have done without you."

She shook her head, hiding her grin. "You'd have just gotten Eric's cousin," she said dismissively, but he could see that she was pleased.

"Are you kidding?" he asked, pressing his hand to his chest in mock-horror. "Tanya can't sing! I wouldn't let her anywhere _near_ my lyrics!"

She laughed. "You're such a music snob," she said fondly. "You going to come backstage?"

Where there were drinks and snacks waiting, Simon remembered, with a sudden pang of hunger. "In a minute," he promised, turning to look out over the crowd. "Jace said he was going to be here. I want to try and find him before the next half."

Clary's eyebrows shot up. "The _Shadowhunter_ Jace? He's here?"

"With his homicidal boyfriend," Simon said absently, scanning the mass of dancing bodies. "If they actually showed up."

"Gay demon hunters," Clary mused. "Sounds like a manga."

"Like _Crimson Spell_," he agreed. He imagined Clary turning Jace into a picture, all sweeping lines and razor-sharp angles. But he wondered if even Clary could reduce Jace to something still, something colourless. He couldn't even see _Jocelyn_ capturing Jace's essence in something inanimate.

"Well, I'm going to check in on the others," Clary announced. "Make sure that Eric doesn't suddenly decide you guys need pyrotechnics or something. Don't spend too long looking, you need something to drink before you go back on."

He said something affirmative, because when he looked again she was already disappearing, a blue monarch butterfly in the half-light. And she was right, he really shouldn't linger too long, he needed fluids and sugar for take two, so Simon glanced out over the club with every intention of following on Clary's heels –

And paused. His eyes caught on a familiar outline, the shape of a body he thought he recognised; lights flashed blue-white-red over a young man's face looking his way and it wasn't – no _way_ could it be –

"Looking for me?"

Simon blinked, and the dark-haired figure was gone. "Sorry?"

He turned, and felt a twist of something nervous and hot at the sight of Jace standing so completely at ease on the edge of the crowd, Alec and Isabelle to either side of him, hands in his pockets as if there was nothing unusual about his being in a mundane club. Before he could stop himself Simon's gaze flicked down and back up, taking in the black button-up shirt and the blue jeans, the glint of silver at Jace's belt and wrists – and when he raised his eyes it was just a beat before Jace finished making the same sweep.

Jace smirked, and Simon's gut tightened.

"_Us_," Isabelle corrected, swatting Jace lightly upside the back of his head, which, as well as being amusing, broke Jace's expression into one of annoyance and let Simon breathe again. "Simon invited us too – didn't you, Simon?" She was wearing the ruby necklace she'd worn to Pandemonium; it shone like a bloody star against her throat, blazing against a slinky black halter-top. It took Simon a second to realise that her gold belt was actually her whip, coiled snugly around her hips.

"I still don't know why we accepted," Alec muttered, low enough that Simon was surprised it was audible over the music. The jolt he felt at the sight of Alec was not nearly as pleasant as the one Jace elicited; he felt the memory of that crushing pain in his throat, the scream he hadn't been able to scream caught in his burning lungs. But Alec didn't look dangerous now. He looked strangely vulnerable in a pair of worn jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, like he didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't hunting demons, and his eyes looked at everything but Simon. He looked – guilty. Ashamed.

And angry, when he caught Simon looking. "What are you staring at?" he snapped.

Simon held up his hands placatingly. "Nothing, sorry." He felt a ribbon of heat and guilt curl around his throat, remembering the night before – Jace's voice breathless and hoarse in his ear, almost panting as Simon, Simon told him...

_I really do have to apologise_.

"Do you guys want to come backstage?" he offered. "It's kind of loud out here – and I need to get ready for the next half."

"Yes!" Isabelle grinned, sweeping forward and hooking Simon's arm with hers. "I've never seen a mundane band before! I want to see _everything!_"

"U-um, okay?" Simon managed, a little overwhelmed by having a very beautiful girl suddenly grab him. He wondered if it was a Shadowhunter thing, being so good-looking – Isabelle with her long dark hair and Amazonian body, Alec's classically perfect face, and Jace, well –

_Is TAKEN_.

Simon took a breath, and pretended he was still on the stage. It was just another kind of performance. "Allow me," he said grandly, and Isabelle played along with a laugh, allowing Simon to sweep her up the steps to the stage, the two boys presumably tagging along after them.

"What's it like?" Isabelle asked as they crossed the stage, putting her lips close to Simon's ear to be heard over the music. "Singing like that?"

"It's _amazing_," Simon said enthusiastically, forgetting to be flustered, and he was still trying to accurately put into words the rush of seeing people love your music when they reached the sound-proofed space behind the stage.

"We were about to send out a search party – " Eric began – and then did a double-take. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Releasing Isabelle's arm, Simon swept a bow, gesturing towards his band. "Isabelle Lightwood, may I introduce you to Eric Reynolds, our drummer; Matt Wheeler, electric guitar; and Kirk Bates, the man with the magic fingers."

Isabelle pinched the skirts of an imaginary dress and curtsied. "Charmed," she declared.

"Forgetting someone, are we?" Jace asked from behind him.

"My apologies," Simon grinned. "Alec Lightwood, Jace Wayland, meet Millennium Lint."

Alec looked distinctly _un_charmed, but Jace was taking everything in as though he might be expected to do battle in the space, and needed to memorise the layout for tactical purposes.

"But who _are_ they?" Matt asked, lounging on a stool and taking a bite out of a doughnut from the snack table.

Simon hesitated. He hadn't thought this far ahead. "Just friends," he said vaguely.

"We're hanging out with Simon later," Isabelle interjected smoothly, "and we thought we'd come see the show." She beamed at Matt. "You're very good, by the way."

A chorus of mingled thanks and mockery – mostly Kirk ragging on Matt's 'flailing hands' – rang out, and Simon left them to it, moving to the snack table to grab one of the bottles of water. Warm water was best for a singer's throat, preferably with something like lemon or honey in it; cold water was absolutely forbidden if he was going to be singing, _especially _if there would be 'screamer' songs. Room temperature was fine, and helloooooo inane babble.

At least it was all internal this time.

He raised the bottle to his lips and almost wished it was something stronger.

Clary slipped into the room, putting her phone away – her mom must have called – and Simon took the opportunity to call her over. "Clary, these are Isabelle, Alec, and Jace," he said, pointing to each of them in turn, watching her eyes narrow intently, with that sharp focus he recognised as her desire for her sketchpad. "You three, this amazing woman is Clarissa Lewis, without whom we would still be a badly-dressed basement band."

Clary smiled – a little warily, Simon thought – and stepped forward to offer her hand. "Hey! Simon's told me a lot about you."

Alec frowned at her like she was a magic trick he was trying to unravel; Isabelle waved from where she sat over by Eric. But it was Jace Clary had gone up to, Jace whom she had narrowed in on, and Simon wondered if that was because Jace was the most striking or if it was because of the way Simon had talked about him.

Jace smiled. It was beautiful the way a knife is beautiful. "Really? He didn't mention you at all." He made no move to accept her hand; instead, without moving anything but his eyes, he managed to dismiss her entirely. "Simon, if you would?"

Simon watched Clary's face fall, not into surprised hurt but into anger. That was his girl. "Well, I _would_, but as a feminist I believe that women do not need guys to punch rude guys in the face for them," he told Jace mock-apologetically. "I firmly believe they can do it themselves."

Jace stared at him blankly; Clary snorted a laugh. "I'm not going to punch him."

"Are you sure? Because it has long been a dream of mine to see you knock someone out." Simon put the bottle back on the table and shrugged out of his jacket. With the club packed full of bodies, it was too hot out there on the stage for extra layers. "It's not you I want to talk to right now, anyway," he told Jace, without looking at him. He didn't want to think about Valentine now, and that was what Jace meant, wasn't it? "Alec?"

Alec blinked. He had very pretty blue eyes, Simon realised, when they weren't shining with hate. Now they were surprised, and a little wary. "What?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" Simon glanced at Clary, who had moved over to talk to Isabelle without a backwards glance at any of the guys, holding her head high. He suppressed a grin, preferring the amusement and pride to the sick knot of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

"I...suppose?" Alec looked at Jace uncertainly; the blonde's expression was a stony mask. "All right."

More calmly than he felt, Simon led Alec into a corner, feeling like a death row inmate walking to his execution. Which would be ridiculously overdramatic, if Alec hadn't nearly killed him two days ago.

He steeled himself.

"What is this about?" Alec asked lowly. "I said I was sorry about – about the other day."

There were hints of the stricken guilt Simon remembered from the aftermath around Alec's eyes – but there was something harder, too, something brittle and sore that made Simon wonder just how sorry he really was. "Actually, no," Simon said quietly. "That's not – I wanted to apologise. I think there were a lot of mixed signals going around, and I only had a little bit of the picture – what I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for maybe-sorta getting in between you and Jace. I honestly had no idea about you two."

Alec's face snapped from one shock to the next like a ball in a pinball machine. "What in Raziel's name are you talking about?" he demanded, dropping his voice to a hiss.

Yeah, Simon hated the Clave already. "I know about you two," he said softly, trying not to let any sympathy or pity into his voice. He had a feeling that would make Alec take another swing at him. "But it's fine," he added hurriedly. "I swear, I'm not going to tell anyone. I'd never out someone – not even you," he said jokingly. Which was a weird feeling, joking about the time a guy almost killed you. Simon was getting to experience all kinds of new things lately.

He felt the smile fade, and turned serious again. "I'm not going to make any kind of move on him, okay? I know he's yours. So – can we not hate each other anymore?"

Alec reeled back, a wild panic flaring around his eyes and Simon, shit, he had not meant to scare him, even Alec didn't deserve that, but just then one of the club manager's people poked their head around the door and yelled "Five minutes, guys!" and Simon didn't have _time_.

"I'm not going to tell!" he whispered helplessly, and paused just long enough to see Alec's fear ease a little – a tiny bit – before Simon jogged back to his band to whip them ready.

Clary turned and smiled at him, and Simon remembered that in half an hour he'd be singing _Crush_, and this was all too much to deal with in a single night.

)0(

The Shadowhunters went back onto the dancefloor when Lint headed back to the stage, and Simon's grip on his bass was sweaty. He strummed a chord, his heart pounding.

"You ready for this?" Kirk asked, walking past on his way to his place.

"Not even close," Simon answered, pasting a manically cheery smile on his face. Kirk snorted and kept walking.

The music settled him, though, the way it always did. Sometimes he used only his voice, and sometimes his fingers ran his guitar pick over the strings alongside the lyrics, the sound of his bass braiding through and over and beneath the words like weaving on a loom. Both soothed him, eased the fluttering fear so he could slip free of his skin and forget about shame, embarrassment, self-consciousness. He laughed into the mike, purred and growled, playful and heated, stalked the stage like a hunting ground, and the club's enthusiasm had not doused over the break. Lint had them dancing like maenads until Simon had to resist the urge to channel _Hocus Pocus_'s Winifred and cackle _"Dance! Dance till you dieeeeee!"_

Because that would be weird. And not in a cool rockstar way, either.

But then the clock struck twelve, and reality smacked him in the face because now – now was the moment.

He glanced at his bandmates in the pause between songs, saw smiles and thumb-ups and encouragement. He looked for Clary and found her, and it was a lump of steel in his gut, her presence – or maybe just the fear, the fear of what he was about to, what he'd spent ten years _not _doing. He'd promised not to out Alec but this was outing himself, and far more terrifying than announcing that actually, he liked guys too. He'd rather admit that to Clary than sing this next song.

He tightened his grip on the mike. He was still going to sing it, though. Because he'd meant what he'd told Eric. Because Jocelyn was missing, and the world had turned out to be even more freaking terrifying than it already was, and Clary _mattered_.

He thought, weirdly, of Jace. Of how Shadowhunters got up every morning and risked their lives to kill demons and monsters. Maybe it was insane, but it was also incredible, and brave, and Simon might not want to be a demon hunter, but he wouldn't turn down being incredible and brave.

Responding to some unconscious signal – maybe the relaxing of Simon's shoulders – Kirk began to play.

Simon took a breath, and sang.

"_I hung up the phone tonight,  
Something happened for the first time,  
Deep inside.  
It was a rush.  
What a rush.  
'Cause the possibility  
That you would ever feel the same way  
About me...  
It's just too much.  
Just too much."_

He looked for Clary and found her, a bright blue jewel in the dark. The club had hushed, the crowd responding to the slower, gentler music, to his voice gone soft and heartfelt.

_"Why do I keep running from the truth?  
All I ever think about is you.  
You got me hypnotized,  
So mesmerized,  
And I've just got to know –"_

His stomach roiled with adrenalin-nausea, and he felt like laughing, like crying, torn in two and all he could do, the only thing he could do was to keep singing, to let this crazy, insane, heart-stopping _thing _out of him at last –

"_Do you ever think,  
When you're all alone,  
All that we could be?  
Where this thing could go?  
Am I crazy or falling in love?  
Is it real or just another crush?  
Do you catch a breath,  
When I look at you?  
Are you holding back,  
Like the way I do?  
'Cause I'm trying, trying to walk away.  
But I know this crush ain't going away~  
Going away~"_

People were gently waving back and forth, now, or slow dancing with each other. The frenzied energy had gone out of the room, but no one seemed to be complaining. Simon barely noticed; he swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry, and Clary was smiling and swaying, someone in charge of the lights had turned things white and blue and soft, and – was she smiling at him? For him? For _them?_

"_Has it ever crossed your mind  
When we're hanging,  
Spending time, girl, are we just friends?  
Is there more?  
Is there more?"_

Please let there be more. Let there be more nights with Clary's arm wrapped around his waist; let there be more laughter; let her say she felt the same.

_"See it's a chance we've gotta take,  
'Cause I believe that we can make this  
Into something that'll last,  
Last –"_

Christ, teenagers weren't supposed to say it, but he wanted to, he meant it and he wanted it –

" – _forever_," he sang, and damn being afraid, damn all of it – he'd killed a Forsaken and run over bad guys and, and he _was_ brave; he sang it loudly, proudly, fiercely, calling it out so that the one word filled up everything, all the space and all their hearts, "_Forever_~"

Kirk carried them over into the chorus, and Simon gave it everything – every second of the last ten years, all the jokes and smiles and midnight feasts, all the movie marathons and the Pokémon battles; every time Clary had swept the hair out of her eyes and he'd longed to do it for her, every time she'd walked into a room being stupidly beautiful and knocked him breathless, every time she'd made him lie still and quiet to draw him. What it felt like, having all of Clary's focus, all of her intensity, lasered in on you alone; how precious and proud it made him feel, to have earned that attention from her. He sang the jump in his heart when she called him Batman and the ache when he saw her crying, and how hard it was not to hold her, every second of every day, because he never wanted to let her go.

He'd practised this song a thousand times, which was the only reason he managed to finish; he did so automatically, like muscle memory, letting the song trail gently away as the others softly brought the music to a close. Simon realised he was shaking, and made himself stop.

There was applause, but Simon barely heard it. Eric stepped up to announce the end of their performance, to say goodnight on Millennium's behalf, but Simon paid no attention. He felt hollow and weak, as if some vital support structure had been take away – as if someone had removed his skeleton. Some core part of him had been taken out and shown to the world, something raw and vulnerable, and the only important thing, suddenly, was knowing what Clary thought of it.

He abandoned Eric, Matt, Kirk; forgot his bass on its stand. There was a fiery fish-hook embedded in his ribcage, pulling him down the steps from the stage to the main floor. Pulling him hard; he stumbled on the last step, and someone caught him.

"Here, you're a Shadowhunter, ain't cha?"

"What?" Simon was already withdrawing his arm, looking for Clary's red hair.

A green finger jabbed at his arm, and Simon did a double-take, looking up into a green hawkish face with an octopus-like beak. "That there's a rune, ain't it? Or was," the strange personage allowed.

Simon glanced down. Sure enough, the silvery scar from the invisibility rune at Dorothea's was visible on his forearm. "Um. Yes?" he said weakly.

A DJ started up the music again. It was hard to tell if the creature was smiling, because Simon didn't know how a beak looked when it was smiling. But the green person looked pleased. "Right then." S/he extended a black-and-gilt card, which Simon took gingerly. "Y'all should come perform."

Simon couldn't make out the writing on the card, not with the club's strobe lights. "Um, I feel like I should point out that I'm the only Shadowhunter? I mean – the others, they're all mundanes." He had no idea what was going on, but if this person wanted a Shadowhunter, it seemed a safe bet that normal mundanes were not going to be able to handle it.

But the creature waved her/his hand – s/he only had four fingers – dismissively. "We'll spell 'em to think t'was all a dream, lovie, no fear. Won't hurt 'em none. I'll see y'all there!"

"Wait!" Simon protested. "What exactly are you – " But with a maybe-smile and a cheerful wave, the personage was gone.

Simon was still peering at the card, trying to make out the glittery text on it, when Clary's voice broke through his reverie. "What's that?"

He looked up at her and just – just forgot how to breathe. The bizarre interlude with the beaked person had distracted him, but now Clary was _here_, standing in front of him and smiling, and holy smokes, Batman – he'd sung it. She _knew_.

"I don't actually know," he said hoarsely. "Some – person just came up and gave it to me. I think they liked the band." He shoved it in his pocket. There were baby pterodactyls in his stomach, so that he didn't even try to sound casual when he asked "Did you like the song?"

She was smiling. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"It's great," she answered, and Simon's heart leapt into his throat and fingertips, his mouth was a desert, his hair ached. "Whoever you sang it for – she's really lucky, Simon."

For a second, it simply didn't process. The words ran round and round his head as uselessly as fragments of a dead language.

"It – it was for you," he said, swallowing. Confused, more than anything else; a numb, cool kind of bafflement, because how could she not realise, not know?

He saw his own puzzlement in Clary's face. For a second that was all there was, like a flower caught in crystal – still and eternal, for just one second, and Simon's breath caught in his chest.

And then she bit her lip, and her expression morphed into something – something guilty and a little panicked, and that was it, game over, crash and burn, _BOOM, baby!_

"Simon," she pleaded as he stepped away, "Simon, wait a second," but he really, really didn't want to. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to talk about it; he wasn't mad, didn't blame her, not even seconds after this crushing lead weight had been dropped on his chest, but – he didn't want to talk.

He shoved his way blindly through the crowd; the pull to Clary had turned into a push, two magnets pressed together South to South and now propelled apart. Strangers recognised him, shouted incomprehensible greetings over the music and offers of drinks. Simon smiled and shook his head and didn't even try to speak. His lungs were full of stone.

He found one of the service entrances and pushed it open, ignoring the warning that declared it linked to the fire alarm. Sure enough no sirens rang out, and he closed it behind him, carefully, conscientiously, and then he was standing in the lot behind Vatican where vans and trucks delivered snacks and alcohol and he did not know what he was doing.

He sat down on the cement steps and put his hands in his hair. He felt crushed – not _depressed, burst-into-tears_ crushed, but literally bent and broken under some huge weight pressing on his chest, something that snapped his ribs like twigs and drove a shard of bone into his heart. Beneath that he was numb. He was not crying. It didn't occur to him that he should be. It didn't occur to him that tears would help.

It felt like hours but was, the logical, dispassionate part of him noted, probably only minutes later that he heard the door open behind him. Something leapt inside him, sparking excited warmth through the numb cold – but when he turned to look it wasn't Clary, but Jace, standing still and silent in the doorway, his face unreadable.

Disappointed, Simon looked straight ahead again, resting his forearms on his thighs because clutching his hair seemed pathetic with an audience.

Noiselessly, Jace came and sat beside him on the steps. He didn't come close enough that Simon would feel guilty about Alec, didn't try to touch Simon at all, just wordlessly reached into his pocket, pulled out a little roll of black velvet, and held it out to Simon.

Simon took it, instantly feeling that there was something solid and hard beneath the soft fabric. The velvet whispered against his fingertips as he unwrapped it, and the moment he touched the thing – a half-instant before he saw it – he recognised it.

"Simiel," he murmured, spilling it into his hand – and it snapped out as he closed his fingers around it, sharp and deadly like the pain in his chest. Except that it didn't feel that way, with the crystal hilt smooth and cool against his palm. The little blade felt like a breath of fresh air and reason: nobody ever died of heartbreak. This was bad now, but not as bad as standing his ground against the Ravener, not as bad as his mom being missing. And...

_This, too, will pass. _

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"It belongs to you." Jace didn't look at him, but there was an intensity to his voice that Simon didn't know what to do with. "Alec had no right to take it."

"I thought I was supposed to give it back." Simon – _did_ something, willed it so, and the blade snicked back into the hilt, once more just a silvery dowel. "I thought you'd only lent it to me."

In the corner of his eye, Jace shook his head. "It's yours," he said again.

Simon nodded absently. "Can I – I'd like to be alone for a while," he said lamely.

"All right." Without protest, Jace unfolded to his feet. "Don't pout too long," he added lightly. "There's always more girls. More fish in the sea, isn't that what you mundanes say?"

_There's always more girls. _

"Go away, Jace," Simon said tiredly. He couldn't even find it in himself to be angry.

He didn't watch as Jace left.

Some time later his phone vibrated in his pocket. Simon ignored it. But by the third ignored text he was self-aware enough to realise he was acting pathetically, stupidly like a dumb teenager, and he pulled out his mobile. All three texts were from Clary. The first two were apologies-cum-pleas to talk; the third wanted to know if he was coming back, or if Eric should take Simon's bass home with him.

_Tell him 2 take it_, Simon answered. _+, no sorries. No1's fault. _

_U coming home wit us?_ She sent back a moment later.

Simon thought of sleeping in the same room as Clary after this. Then he wondered whether he had any other options, because teenage pique and angst was all very well, until you said 'no' to your only refuge and ended up staying awake all night in some 24 hour cafe that served breakfast at midnight with truly atrocious coffee.

_Don't no. When u guys leaving?_

_Not 4 a while. Eric talking wit the manager + Matt found a girl. !_

Despite the flicker of jealousy, Simon laughed at that exclamation mark. _Then I'll let u no?_

_Kk. x_

Simon stared at the little x for minutes before he put his phone away.

He was playing with Simiel, tossing the crystal tube from hand to hand mindlessly when the door creaked open again behind him.

"Jace says you've sulked long enough and it's time to go," Isabelle declared. Her stiletto boots clicked on the concrete as she walked over to him. "And by the way – "

She did not suddenly tense – Simon had the unexpected thought that freezing up was a bad way for a warrior to react to surprises – but he felt her playfulness change into something sharp and shocked.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded.

He glanced up at her, wary after Alec's reaction to the seraph blade the other day. But unlike her brother Isabelle looked more incredulous than angry, so he answered simply, "Jace."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed, and she dropped onto the step beside him. "I think I'd rather you'd stolen it," she said darkly. "Tell me everything."

It was not a request. It was also a distraction from pretty much everything, so Simon obeyed her, quickly running down how Jace had handed him the blade outside Simon's home. When he told her its name, she twitched.

"I'm going to take a wild guess," she said to no one in particular when he'd finished, "and say that Jace didn't tell you what it meant."

"What what meant?"

Isabelle bit her lip. For a moment Simon was reminded sharply of his mother, and of Clary. "I don't know if I should tell you." She did not say it the way another teenage girl would; she wasn't being coy, wasn't not-so-secretly eager to spill all the gossip. Her voice was wary, the voice of someone facing down an unknown threat.

Remembering Alec, Simon was very sure he did not want Isabelle to decide he was a threat. But "Alec nearly killed me over it," he said, more harshly than he'd meant (although really, how gentle was it possible to be, saying those words?) "At the Institute. When he found out I had it. If that's going to be a common reaction then I'd like to know so I can stop flashing it around."

Disturbingly, Isabelle did not seem surprised to hear of her brother's reaction. The wary twist of her mouth became tinged with something unhappy.

"Seraph blades are really important to Shadowhunters," she said quietly. "In the really old days, you weren't counted a Shadowhunter at all until you killed a demon or rogue Downworlder with a seraph blade. And once you did – do – once you've used a seraph blade to kill, it's yours. Bonded to you. Forever. No one else can touch it – unless you forge _phask__ō_ with them."

"Pha-what?"

"It means 'bond'. There's just three bonds that allow for sharing – or gifting – a seraph blade. Ready?

" '_Halikask__ō__ for duty to Clave and Crown,  
Daiosask__ō __for when blood is raining down,  
Armask__ō__ to win a wedding gown.'_

"They're all different. _Halikask__ō_– we don't have kings anymore, of course, but it's the bond between us and the Clave. Or, between all of us, really. It's the _phask__ō_between us and our teachers, who give us our first seraph blades; it's what allows us to request new ones from any Institute in the world, whenever we need to restock." Isabelle shot him a sharp look. "_Halikask__ō_is for unnamed, unbonded blades.

"_Daiosask__ō_ is the battle-bond. It means we can lend our seraph blades to each other while in a fight; if someone is unarmed, anyone else can toss them a seraph sword. It's for named, bonded blades, and after the fight you have to give them back, if the original wielder is still alive.

"Aaaand..."

"My heart is sinking already," Simon told the steps.

Isabelle looked grim. "And, _armask__ō_. Which is for named, _unbonded_ blades. And they're not returned, because an _armask__ō_ blade is a gift to a lover."

Simon blinked. "Say that again," he ordered. "I thought you said - just say it again."

"Or, you know, a loved one," Isabelle added sweetly. "I could give one to Alec."

"I'm not Jace's brother," Simon snapped. "_Or_ his lover," he added when Isabelle's eyes widened, as if that had been an accidental confession. "I mean – Jesus, how does that even _work?_"

"Well, when daddy loves papa _very much _–"

"I meant the armas-thing," Simon snapped.

Isabelle sighed. "It's an old, old tradition," she said slowly. "Doesn't get used much anymore, even though it's _so_ romantic." She said this somewhat sarcastically. "You name an unbonded blade, something as close to the name of your One True Love as possible – "

_Simiel_, Simon thought, sick dread pooling in his stomach. _Simon. Simiel – Simon. Jesus Christ Superstar. _

" - and then you give it to them." She paused. "And then you get married."

* * *

NOTES

The songs Millennium Lint sing in this chapter are

Earthquake – Family Force 5

Crush – David Archuleta

References;

Benn Grimm is the real name of the Thing, a member of the Fantastic Four.

Terra is a character from the tv show Teen Titans. Which is awesome.

_Crimson Spell_ is a manga by Ayano Yamane.


	11. Chapter 11

"You _WHAT?_" Simon shouted. He shoved up onto his feet. "Are you – please tell me you're not being serious!" _This is a joke. Jace did not propose to me. The crazy demon hunter did not PROPOSE TO ME after three days of watching me sleep!_

"It's a declaration of intention," Isabelle said, as if he hadn't spoken – as if he wasn't shouting, wasn't freaking the _fuck_ out, because _what?_ "An announcement of the other person's feelings. It's staking a claim, and _yes_, if the couple are already together it can be a, a proposal. But Jace probably didn't mean it like that because you two don't know each other," she concluded hastily.

"Oh, no, of course not," Simon snapped. "We can't get married, we've only known each other a few days, but he can _stake a claim on me?_ Is he, what, are we secret boyfriends now? Because _someone should have freaking told me!_"

Isabelle hesitated.

Simon groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "Oh my God, I'm getting a shotgun wedding with a demon hunter," he said weakly. "Mom is going to kill me." Belatedly, he thought of Alec. "What about your brother?" No wonder Alec had gone so crazy when he discovered Simiel; the little blade must have struck him right through the heart.

Isabelle looked puzzled. "Well, he's Jace's _parabatai_, so they can use each other's seraph blades..." she said slowly. "Just like they can use runes that other Shadowhunters can't..." She clearly didn't understand why he'd brought Alec up.

"Doesn't it matter?" Simon demanded. "That, that Jace is handing out these, these _love knives_ even though he has Alec?"

She frowned. "I don't see why it should."

"I'm getting a shotgun wedding with a _polyamorous_ demon hunter," Simon wailed. Of course. Of freaking _course!_ Because his life would never reach a stable level of sanity _ever again_. "What am I supposed to _do?_"

"Nothing," Isabelle said firmly. "Absolutely _nothing._" She glared fiercely at him. "Look, Jace clearly doesn't expect a response from you. As far as he knows, you don't know what Simiel means. He's just...I don't know what he's doing, putting up a big _hands off_ sign, maybe – "

"_Why?_"

"How should I know?" Isabelle snapped. "Maybe it's his idea of a joke, or he thinks it'll keep you safe somehow. Maybe he wants to get in your pants. Maybe he actually _likes_ you. But whichever it is, you don't need to know. You can just keep pretending that you _don't_ know."

"Really?" Simon drawled. "And there's nothing else I need to know? Is it safe to borrow toothbrushes, or are there seraph toothbrushes named Zachariah that will have me waking up married in the suburbs if I touch them?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Isabelle said dismissively.

"Because _that's_ ridiculous," Simon nodded. "I'll make a note. No holy toothbrushes. Just _wedding-swords_." Which would actually be incredibly cool, if it hadn't accidentally _gotten him engaged_.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and got to her feet. "Look, I told you because I didn't think it was fair that you didn't know. But if you ask me, you should just ignore it."

"Ignore my fiancé? That seems a little harsh. Besides, how can we discuss wedding invites if we're not talking?"

"You're not getting married!" Isabelle snapped. She was far more intimidating when she was standing up. "Stop being intentionally stupid! By the Angel, I shouldn't have told you."

"No – no, you shouldn't have _had_ to," Simon corrected angrily. "_Jace _should have told me."

Isabelle threw up her hands. "So, what? You want to go in there," she pointed at the door, "and confront him? What are you going to say, Simon? What do you want _him_ to say? Either he doesn't mean it, in which case you'll only embarrass everyone, or," She stepped forward and jabbed her fingernail into his chest sharply, "or he _does_ mean it, and you storming in there will only humiliate and hurt him, and I _will not_ let you hurt my brother, _do you understand me?_"

"Alec?" Simon gulped. _Would _it hurt Alec, dragging all this out into the open? Probably. If it meant something, then – probably.

But "No, _Jace_," she snapped. "Jace is my brother too, you _athumos_, he's lived with us since he was ten years old. My parents _raised_ him. He's _ours_."

"You Shadowhunters are big on staking claims on people, aren't you?" Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. "Sorry. I didn't mean – sorry." He looked at her. "Do you really think I should pretend...?"

She was already nodding. "_Yes_," she said fiercely. "It's – whatever he's is up to, we'll find out eventually. When he's ready. Pushing him – Jace..."

Simon could imagine it: back Jace up against a wall and all that golden power would strike out like lightning. But only if this thing with Simiel was real, instead of some bizarre joke. Sure, there was..._something_ there. Plenty of sexual tension, for starters. But a sexy spark did not equal _marriage_, even if Shadowhunters apparently saw nothing wrong with polyamory (which, kudos to them, Simon would be impressed and confused by such forward thinking in a homophobic society if it hadn't potentially thrown him into _a threesome with Alec_) _or_ the idea of Jace making moves on someone else when he already had a boyfriend.

No. It had to be a joke. And if it wasn't – if it wasn't then Jace wasn't just arrogant, he was an asshole, because polyamory or no, Alec clearly would not be on board with Jace's plan, _was not _on board if he'd already figured it out. Which – he might have, as evidenced by the freak out over Simiel.

God, _Alec_. What the hell was _he_ feeling about this mess?

"All right," Simon said finally. He didn't like this one _tiny freaking bit_, but he didn't seem to have much of a choice. He couldn't imagine actually confronting Jace about this – _so I hear you want to marry me_; NO – and without the Shadowhunters, Simon had no idea how to start looking for his mom. "Fine. We'll pretend Jace is not looking to tap this, and move on with our lives."

Isabelle was clearly relieved. "_Thank_ you," she said fervently. "Now come on. We really do have to get going."

"Going? Where are we going?" Simon asked as he followed her through the door. "Hello? Isabelle? _Where are we going?_"

)0(

"The Silent City," Jace announced when they found him. "If you don't behave."

"Pardon?" Simon handed his student ID and his ticket to the woman running Vatican's cloakroom; she examined both, then took his ticket and went to get his bag for him. "Isn't that in Idris?"

Alec laughed, sharp and mocking. "That's the _Glass_ City."

"We're not really going to the Silent City," Isabelle said reassuringly, which was useless because Simon didn't know why he supposedly needed reassuring. "We're going home."

"To the Institute," Simon clarified. His stomach twisted. _Where Hodge is._

"That's where we live, yes," Jace drawled. "We've put so much work into the decorating, it would be a shame to move elsewhere."

"And you're particularly proud of the wainscoting, right?" Simon parried without looking at him. He smiled and thanked the employee who brought back his rucksack, swinging it over his shoulder with a sense of relief. The last few days had left him warier of life, the universe, and everything, which was why he'd brought his bag and belongings with him instead of leaving them at Clary's. What if something crazy happened and he had to make a run for it?

"No, that was Maryse," Jace corrected. "_I_ picked the curtains."

He sounded so smug about it that Simon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. But he didn't want to encourage Jace any further. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers curling around the little velvet package without thinking about it. "Why are we going to the Institute, and how long are we going to be?"

"We're going because that's where the Silent Brothers are sending someone to meet you," Jace said absently as they made their way to the club's exit. "And as for how long; you're staying there."

Simon stopped dead. "No."

"Not this again," Alec muttered.

Simon ignored him. He'd avoided looking directly at Jace since Isabelle's revelation but now he had eyes for nobody else, nothing else. "Did he tell you how he knew about the Cup?"

Jace met his eyes squarely, without flinching, but it was Isabelle who answered. "The Clave sent a message to all the Institutes, telling them to watch for the Cup. There's rumours running through the Downworld that that's what Valentine is after."

"That's crap and you know it," Simon snapped without looking away from Jace. "You _know it_. You're telling me that the Clave _knows_ Valentine is alive? Already? How? He has my mom and _we_ don't even know if he's alive, or if someone's just using his name!" He swallowed. "And if the Clave knows, shouldn't they be sending more Shadowhunters to come deal with him? Shouldn't there be a freaking _army _descending on New York?"

"They're coming," Jace said quietly. "It takes time to get them here, Simon."

"_Bullshit_." Simon glanced between Alec and his sister. "Do you two buy this too?" he demanded.

"I've known Hodge my entire life," Alec said simply. "Whoever he was in the past, he's not that person anymore. He would never do anything to hurt us."

"You forgave your mother for being in the Circle," Isabelle reminded him, and he wondered how she knew that, wondered who had told her. "Why not Hodge?"

"I _know_ my mom," Simon snapped. "I don't know him. I don't trust him."

"But we do," Jace said, and Simon was caught by the intensity behind the words. "Can you trust _us?_"

Simon paused and just..._looked_ at him. He knew what his mom would expect him to say, what he _should _say: _no, I don't, I barely know you, ever since I met you my life's gone to hell._ But the words were copper masquerading as gold, false and bloody in his mouth: he _did_ trust Jace. Simon had known him for a handful of days and trusted him as much as he did Clary – more, maybe, because where Clary might _want_ to save Simon from a Ravener, or a Forsaken, she didn't have the ability to actually do it. It wasn't a reflection on her, just a fact of life: in this mess with Valentine, it was Jace Simon trusted to have his back.

When had he started seeing Jace as someone holding the safety-net under this tight-rope? There were so many moments, now that he thought about it: Jace standing beside him when he explored the emptied apartment; Jace urging him to stay at the Institute, wild for Simon's safety; Jace pressing a weapon into his hand as if to say _you're strong, you can do this_.

Except that wasn't what the blade had meant at all, was it? And Jace hadn't told him. By all rights Simon shouldn't trust Jace as far as he could throw him; what other secrets might he be keeping? What else was Simon not being told?

And yet logic had no say in it. _He trusted Jace_. It was stupid and instinctive and as certain as gravity, and a little part of him hated it because Simiel was a burning weight in his pocket, a blazing warning that he _shouldn't_ trust Jace. Simon was going to get burned, and he knew it, and he still found himself saying "Yeah, I do."

And then wanted to kick himself, because he hadn't meant to say that at all. It was – too much, too honest. Baring too much of himself.

_Especially _now that he knew what Simiel meant.

"Good," Jace said cheerfully; whatever had been glittering at the back of his eyes vanished, and his voice turned light. "Then walk a little faster – we're off to find Valentine."

Simon missed his step and stumbled; if Isabelle hadn't quickly grabbed his arm he would have fallen. "How the hell are we going to do that?!"

Alec looked alarmed. "Jace, you can't be serious," he protested.

"We don't even know where to look," Isabelle added, which Simon thought was _really not the point._

"Of course we do," Jace said, grinning. They were outside by now; the air was as thick and humid as a hothouse, a real New York summer night (or incredibly early morning; Simon didn't want to even think about what time it was), the kind you could taste, all melting tarmac and spice and hot stone. The curve of Jace's mouth blended right into it, neon and sharp. He half-turned, and before Simon could react the blonde pressed two fingers to his temple, so gently that Simon didn't know what to do with it. "Everything we need to know is locked up in Simon's head."

Simon pulled away from the touch. "If I knew where Valentine was I'd tell you," he said sharply, his heart pounding. "I'd have told you the second my mom went missing."

"Not if you don't know you know." Isabelle's expression had gone thoughtful. "But how are we going to – " She froze, and glanced at Jace with shock in her eyes. "You didn't say – but you hate the Silent Brothers!"

"I don't hate them," Jace said calmly. "I'm afraid of them. It's not the same thing."

Alarm bells started shrieking in the back of Simon's mind. "I'm fairly certain I don't want to meet anything you're scared of," he said warily.

"Not even if they can help us find your mother?" Jace's eyes were glittering again. "The Silent Brothers can help you retrieve your memories."

"What memories?" Simon demanded, throwing up his hands. "I don't know anything about Valentine! Until that talk in the library I'd never even heard his name!"

"_That you remember_."

"Jace is right," Alec said suddenly, taking them all by surprise. "You're born with the Sight, it doesn't just spontaneously manifest. If you can see us, then you should have been seeing things your entire life."

"But I haven't," Simon said slowly. "What does that mean?"

"It _means_," Jace said – not triumphantly, as Simon would have expected, but gently, "that for some reason, there are things you've forgotten. Someone's hidden secrets in your mind, secrets you can't see. Don't you want to know the truth of your own life?"

"I – yeah, of course." Simon wasn't sure he bought the idea that there was some hidden treasure map in his head, but if there was the slightest chance that Jace was right... If there was some clue that could lead them to Valentine, to his mom, then Simon was going to jump on it. "But I don't understand how you think I'm suddenly going to remember."

"You're not," Jace said patiently. "The Silent Brothers will help. I already said that."

Simon counted to ten silently. "Once again: _I am not a Shadowhunter._ I don't know who the Silent Brothers are." _You arrogant ass_, he thought but didn't say. He didn't believe for one minute that Jace didn't enjoy flaunting knowledge that Simon didn't have.

"They're librarians," Jace said, suddenly vague, and Simon's eyes sharpened at the way Isabelle and Alec exchanged glances.

"Okay," he said calmly. "Now tell me who they _really _are."

"They're really creepy," Isabelle said cheerfully.

"They are _not_," Alec protested. "They make incredible sacrifices to serve the way they do – "

Isabelle held up her hand to cut him off. "Still creepy." She turned to Simon. "They're Shadowhunters, but – not like us. They _mutilate_ themselves."

"They use some of the most powerful runes in existence to strengthen their minds," Alec corrected.

"And twist up their bodies."

"They deserve respect, Isabelle!"

"They _need_ some serious fashion advice. And maybe masks."

"_Guys!_" Simon half-yelled. "Could someone just answer my question?"

Jace, who had been following the argument with amusement, looked at him. "Their powers are of the mind, the way ours are of the body," he explained. "If you have hidden memories, they'll find them."

"So what you're saying is, they read minds," Simon summarised. "That doesn't sound so bad. I'd rather have someone mess around inside my head than chop it off."

"Then you're an idiot," Jace told him. "They can take a man's mind apart like you'd peel a banana."

"What about a woman's mind?" Isabelle asked frostily.

"A woman's mind is too dangerous a place even for the Silent Brothers," Jace replied archly. "They wouldn't even try."

"That's what I thought you meant."

Simon bit down on his angry response to being insulted. "_You're_ the idiot," he said coldly, ignoring their banter. "It's still better than dying. As long as there's life, there's hope, isn't there? Maybe someone could fix your mind, or maybe you'd just get better eventually. Anything could happen. But if you're dead, you're dead."

Jace opened his mouth to answer – and paused, frowning.

Simon didn't bother waiting for him to think up a comeback. "But this could help find my mom?"

"Yes," Alec answered. "Potentially."

Simon chewed his lip. _Potentially_ was better than what he had at the moment – which was nothing. They'd almost reached the subway, and Simon pulled out his phone and typed a text to Clary as they approached it; _Going with Jace, not coming back 2nite. Call u l8r._ "All right then, fine. I'll let your freaky mind-readers inside my head."

"Great," Isabelle said cheerfully. She slung her arm around Simon's shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll be fine. It won't even hurt... _Much_."

Simon glared at her, and she laughed.

"I'm still not staying at the Institute," he warned as his phone vibrated. _Kk. All clear/red alert?_ "I'll meet these Silent guys tonight, but that's it. I'm going back to Clary's in the morning."

_Car keys/dalek_ he texted back.

Isabelle peered over his shoulder. "What's a dalek?" she asked curiously. "And why is it a red alert?"

"One of the worst demons in the universe," he said seriously, unable to resist. "And it's a safecall."

She looked at him blankly.

"You know – like a safeword?" Still nothing. "It's a code you arrange with your friends when you go out with someone. So they know if you're okay or not. Something you can use in a phone call even if someone's listening in – or text to them, whichever."

"You're arranging a red alert warning for going out with _us?_" Jace asked, scandalised. "I thought you trusted us."

"I do!" Simon protested. "But it's – it's automatic by now," he said lamely. The truth was that Jocelyn had drummed it into him, not when he started going on dates, but when he got old enough that school friends started inviting him home. He'd been the only six year old in his class with a mobile phone, so he could always call if something was wrong – and Jocelyn could always get hold of him.

He'd always thought her a little paranoid, but it made a painful amount of sense now. She must have worried that something like this might happen. _And when it did, it was the one time I forgot my phone..._

"Anyway, you've seen them now. I have to pick new ones," he muttered. _Scratch that – bad dreams/coffee_, he sent, and quickly tucked his phone away before someone could steal another glance.

"Hm. Well, come along, children," Jace said airily, leading them down into the subway station. "Wouldn't want to annoy the Brothers by being late."

)0(

In the time since he'd left it, the Institute had taken on Gothic proportions in Simon's mind, complete with permanent gloom and bats in the belfry. But even in the dark, at night, it just looked like a church – impressively large, maybe, but hardly horror-movie-set material. It was the place you ran to for sanctuary, in a horror movie – the place where the monsters couldn't get you.

Considering his fears about Hodge, that was a little too ironic for Simon's comfort.

"You know, you still owe me a cup of coffee," he reminded Jace idly when they were inside.

"I'll make us all some," Isabelle announced. "I could use a cup myself."

"You know, I don't think drinking coffee this late is a good idea," Jace said hastily. Alec nodded in vigorous agreement. Simon glanced between them, confused, but said nothing. He was tired – too tired to try and protest more Shadowhunter weirdness. His mind was a rat's nest of fears and worries and his stomach was in knots.

Simiel. Hodge. These Silent Brother people. Clary. There was so much, and he didn't know what to do about any of it.

He started when Jace suddenly slung an arm around his shoulder. "Are you moping?" the blonde asked, far too cheerfully for the hour. "Because I know just how to cure that."

"You can't take him hunting, Jace," Isabelle said instantly, with a weary air. "He's untrained, for one thing."

"It's in his blood," Jace replied gaily, flashing Simon a grin that dazzled like sunlight on water. Their faces were too close; Simon turned his away. He could hear his own blood, like holding a seashell to your ear; that same roaring, rushing sound. "You should have seen him with the Forsaken."

"I feel like I _did_," Alec muttered behind them. "You haven't shut up about it since it happened."

Simon felt his cheeks grow hot. "You _what?_" he demanded of Jace, shoving him away. Embarrassment burned up his throat, down into his belly. "Please tell me he's joking."

"He's exaggerating wildly," Jace said. "I don't talk in my sleep." At Simon's blank expression, he added "So there have been at least six hours a night when I haven't mentioned it at all."

He grinned, and Simon resisted the urge to laugh. It was just so _Jace._

"Why are you so happy, anyway?" he asked. "It's – " He checked the time on his phone. " – almost _three am_, and you're all – " he waved his hand at Jace, unable to find the words.

"Fabulous? Wonderful? Breathtakingly – "

"The next word out of your mouth had better be 'conceited', or I'm going to punch you again," Simon warned, trying hard not to grin.

Even Alec's lips twitched. It felt like a victory.

"I was," Jace said, "just about to suggest that."

"What?"

"You. Punching me. Or not _me_, because you might damage this face, and that would be a tragedy. But punching other things. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Not really," Simon said half-heartedly, because it kind of did. "It's making _you_ sound like a lunatic, though. Was that your goal? Because if so, it's working."

Jace smirked. "Stop playing hard to get," he said softly, suddenly not playful at all, "and come spar with me."

_No_. It was a bad idea. It was late; Simon wanted to meet with the Silent Brothers people and go to bed. He wanted a shower. He wanted to sit and think, not poke his own eye out waving knives around. Even if he might actually learn something useful, something that might end up saving his life. Even if he could taste the _yes_ on his tongue, like honey and ice –

He swallowed hard. "When are the telepaths arriving?" he asked, and saw Jace's eyes glitter. They both knew he was avoiding the question.

Jace shrugged, his indifference at odds with the intensity of his gaze. "The Silent Brothers come and go as they please. They said they'd come tonight; they didn't say when."

"But you said..." _We wouldn't want to annoy the Brothers by being late._

"It would have been incredibly disrespectful to have summoned them and not been here when they arrived," Alec pointed out.

"But it could be ages until they show up," Jace added. He closed his fingers on Simon's wrist. "Come on," he said softly. "We have time. And you look like you need it."

"I'll come with you," Alec said, but from the corner of his eye Simon saw Isabelle hook her arm through her brother's.

"Actually, Alec, Hodge was saying earlier that the Iron Sisters sent us a new shipment," she was saying, skilfully pulling Alec down another hallway. "You can help me sort through all our new toys..."

Dimly, Simon heard Alec's protests, but Isabelle was clearly a match for him and the brunette didn't reappear. It was enough, though, to remind Simon of his promise, enough to make him remember that Jace was taken and there were so many reasons why this was a bad idea.

He couldn't think of a single one when Jace tugged on his wrist.

)0(

"I don't suppose your mother gave you any training?" Jace asked as Simon turned in a circle, taking in the array of weaponry on the walls. Simon had seen the training room before, briefly, and it was just as he remembered it; racks and hooks and shelves weighted down with weapons he recognised and weapons he didn't, with swords and knives and things he couldn't even figure out how to hold, never mind name them.

"No." Simon folded his arms over his chest, trying not to feel weird now that he was alone with the guy who had secretly proposed to him. _Relatively speaking, it's probably not much weirder than demons,_ he told himself.

It was not a particularly convincing argument.

"It seems so strange, that she didn't try to prepare you for any of this." Simon didn't turn around, but he heard a clatter of metal as Jace went through sharp things, deciding what to start with. "Mundanes learn martial arts and things, don't they?"

"Sometimes."

"So why not send you to those classes? At least you'd have something, then."

Simon felt a spark of anger, both in his mother's defence and in his own. _I have plenty,_ he thought. _My life has never been empty because I wasn't gutting things or beating people up! _"She probably wanted me to be normal," he answered, keeping his voice calm. With a glance over his shoulder to check that Jace was occupied, he quietly lifted down a number of parts from their places on the wall. Deftly, with sure, familiar movements, he snapped the limbs onto the central riser, instantly creating the main body of a recurve bow – an especially beautiful one, all state of the art carbon and fibreglass, and Simon smiled to himself as he strung it.

"Jace?"

"Yes?" The blonde didn't look up yet. Good. There was a row of thumb rings on a hook next to a full and waiting quiver; Simon slipped one of the rings onto his thumb and nocked an arrow against the bow's rest.

"Don't move."

Jace froze instantly, and Simon wondered if it was part of a Shadowhunter's training, to be able to go so still on command – and then he drew the arrow back and let it fly.

It snapped through the air like black lightning, a swift whistle that skimmed Jace's shoulder and buried itself in a punching bag a few feet past him.

"Can I move now?" Jace asked softly. He hadn't even flinched.

"No," Simon answered, just as hushed. He was no Hawkeye, to draw arrows faster than he could blink, but he had another in his hand quickly, and nocked, and drawn back against the corner of his mouth almost like a kiss. He didn't know what this was, didn't want to think about the strange, shivering intensity suddenly thick in the air, the pounding of his heart, Jace's calm, silent stillness.

"My mom," he said quietly, "gave me _everything_. She's a _great_ parent. And me? I am _not_ worth less than you just because I can't swing a sword around."

"I didn't say you were," Jace said. His voice had gone low, low and a little hoarse, and he didn't turn around.

"No?" Simon swallowed. "I think you implied it." He sighted, adjusted, and released the arrow; Jace's hiss of breath was louder than the arrow's flight as it ruffled his hair and slammed into the punching bag. "Or is it that big of a deal when Alec kills a Forsaken?"

"Alec has never killed anything, actually, so yes, it would be," Jace answered, and his voice was satin catching on callused skin. Simon refused to shiver as he found another arrow.

_Never? _"So he doesn't have a bonded blade," Simon murmured, eyes widening with the realisation. _No freaking WONDER he hates me._ It had sounded important, when Isabelle talked about it. _As if it wasn't enough that his boyfriend gave me an __armask__ō __blade, then I went and bonded with it__._

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." Jace's hands were loose at his sides. For some reason that struck Simon hard, the calm curve of the blonde's fingers at rest. _Alec,_ he reminded himself. He should – stop. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, and his stomach was clenched, tight and warm and uncertain, and this wasn't – he hadn't meant to –

But then "Are you going to draw that?" Jace asked, hoarse and challenging, and Simon snapped the third arrow into place and touched his lips to the end of it on impulse as he drew it back. _This is how Shadowhunters blow kisses_, he caught himself thinking – and then it was gone, a streak of black through the air. It brushed Jace's throat and Simon heard it again, that hiss of indrawn breath that could almost have been the shot itself, but wasn't, and Jace's fingers flexed as the arrow thudded into the punching bag.

"I," Simon said fiercely, "am _not_ useless."

"I can see that." Low. Amused. Embers in smoke, and hot syrup dripping into Simon's stomach. "Are you done?"

Simon lowered the bow, trying to pin down what he was feeling. "Yes," he answered, a little hoarse himself and not sure why. Not sure what – _that_ – had been.

Jace turned, and his eyes were dark and heated as they traced Simon's face, before dropping to the bow in his hand. Simiel was a lead weight. "Where," Jace asked, slow and deliberate and husky, "did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Six years of B.R.P.D. training." Jace looked back up at him, and to get away from the blonde's gaze Simon focussed on taking the bow apart, piece by careful piece. "Hellboy camp. The swords were all foam, but the bows were real."

"Hellboy?" Simon didn't need to look to know Jace had raised an eyebrow.

"It's a comic book." He was incredibly aware of Jace watching him as he unstrung the bow and disconnected the limbs from the riser – which was the main part of the bow's 'body'. "The people who make the comics created the camp. '_Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense__'. _A little hand to hand, some pretend magic – you even get classes in telepathy."

"Really?" He could hear Jace's smirk. "What number am I thinking of?"

Simon looked up at him and smiled. "You're not thinking of a number," he said softly, and Jace's expression faltered.

Simon smirked.

"Hand to hand?" Jace asked, hoarse as Simon turned and put the bow back on the wall.

"I was never any good at that part," Simon admitted, pulling the thumb ring off. It went back on its hook, and he turned back around, facing Jace squarely. "Just the archery."

"I'm sure we can fix that." Jace moved closer, slow strides like a hunting cat. "Don't worry," he added, his lips curving up into a grin. "I'll take care of you."

"I bet you will," Simon murmured. His jacket shifted over his shoulders as he tried to mirror Jace's pose.

"The most important thing is to accept that you're going to get hurt," Jace told him. "Fear of pain is what makes most people freeze up and panic. You have to relax, accept it, and then not think about it. You'll be amazed at how much you can take, and how quickly your body recovers from a hard blow."

"I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one hitting things?" Simon said warily. "Because it sounds like I'm going to be the one getting hit, instead."

Jace's lips quirked. " 'Pain is the best instructor, but no one wants to go to his class.'"

The quote was vaguely familiar. "Didn't some martial arts guy say that?"

"Choi Hong Hi," Jace said. "The founder of Taekwondo. Now. Relax."

Completely without his permission, Simon's mind flashed back to that night last year, Sebastian's voice rough and sex-strained in his ear. _"Relax."_

He swallowed. "So you can punch me?" he asked hoarsely, shoving the memory away.

"Yes," Jace said easily, like it was nothing. "But I won't hit hard. Just a tap."

And that was all the warning Simon got before the blonde's fist slammed into his gut. The blunt explosion of pain ripped Simon's breath away, and it felt like his body had betrayed him, by feeling this shocky and raw and _hurting_ –

"You said a _tap!_" he gasped through gritted teeth, hot anger holding humiliation's hand as Jace watched him double over calmly.

"I lied," the blonde said helpfully, and Simon snarled at him.

"When someone's about to punch your stomach and you can't block them, there's two things you have to do," Jace continued, ignoring Simon's non-verbal commentary. "One: try and shift to one side or the other so you don't get hit right in the middle. A hard enough blow to the centre of your gut can kill you. Second, breathe out short and hard just before the hit lands." He beamed. "Now, let's try it again."

Simon stared at him. "I'm not letting you hit me again!" He straightened up testingly, wary both of the pulsing ache in his gut and his so-called instructor.

Jace smirked. "Can you stop me?" He darted in close and slapped Simon's shoulder, gone before Simon could even reach for him. Simon's hands curled into fists. "I can move faster than a mundane can see, Simon. You can't attack me, you can't defend against me – so move past the hurt I can do you."

"That would be easier if you told me how!" Simon snapped. His own helplessness was laid out stark and bare between them – and it made him furious, hatefully, burningly angry. Jace was a teenage Shadowhunter – how much better would an adult be? If Jace was light years beyond Simon, how much further was Valentine?

How could he get his mom back from someone who moved too fast to see?

"Don't think about the pain," Jace ordered, and the teasing was gone from his voice. "Don't fear it, don't obsess over it. Pain is water, and you are diamond – let it wash over you."

_Really, Jace? Pseudo-mystical metaphors? REALLY? _Simon grit his teeth. "I don't want you to hit me again," he said deliberately, forcing his voice to be calm.

"Tough," Jace said harshly. "You think a demon's going to let you go if you ask politely? Or a Forsaken? Do you think Valentine _listens _when your mother begs him not to – "

Simiel was in his hand and slashing through the air like a shooting star, so fast it seemed to trail light as Simon lunged for Jace's throat. He didn't remember snarling the blade's name but the sound still hung on the air as Jace twisted away, and Simon was underwater, he was on fire, the world was molten glass and molasses and Jace – Jace moved and Simon could see him, see him coming-ducking-dodging and he wanted to scream, he wanted to _break _Jace's cruel, beautiful mouth, wanted to force him to take back his poison. He snapped out with Simiel and Jace flowed out of the way like water, his fist hit Simon's wrist like stone and it hurt but – but he ignored it, made himself ignore it, and he was fast, _he_ was fast, wind to Jace's water. Jace hit him again and the pain was background static, meaningless, it _didn't fucking matter_ and Simon breathed and thrust and took the blow meant for his stomach on his hip and it was not a dance, it was not choreographed, it was not pretty. There was no roaring in his ears, he couldn't hear his pulse, there was none of that cinematic movie crap – it was dead silent, and dead still, just his breath and Jace's and their feet on the floor, quick and pattering like raindrops on a roof and under it all, over it all his mother screaming in his head –

_Do you think Valentine _listens_, when your mother begs him not to –_

Jace's hand came at Simon's head and he jerked out of the way, flashed forward with Simiel and had his wrist knocked aside; fist, elbow, the starlight-shard of the blade in his hand; nails, knee, he would have used his _teeth_ if he could have gotten close enough, brutal and dirty and clumsy, there was rage but no skill for it to move through and Jace wasn't water, he was _light_, he was fast-faster-faster than anything, even like this, even with the world slow and sluggish and shimmering around them. Simon could see him but couldn't touch him, could only barely get out of the way and that only sometimes, he felt the hammer of Jace's fists and his kicks but he _took_ it, breathed short and hard before each blow and rolled with them like steel sheets, reverberating but not breaking.

When Jace went to knock his wrist Simon tossed Simiel to his left hand and jerked his right arm out of the way; switched the knife back to his right hand and snapped out with it, missed, again and he heard-saw-felt cloth rip and –

Jace swept Simon's feet out from under him.

It was like crashing through a mirror; Simon fell back into reality, out of that slow, white-hot world and into the one he knew, hitting it flat on his back and he half expected the floor to fracture and buckle around him, as if he'd fallen straight out of the sky instead of just fallen _over_.

It knocked him breathless, and then Jace was on top of him, knocking Simiel from his hand (somehow Simon had held onto it as he fell) and pinning Simon's wrists _flat_. His, Jace's, shirt was ripped through from shoulder to opposite hip, almost coming off him, baring a body that belonged on a magazine cover and they were both breathing hard, inches apart, Simon could have leaned up and fit their mouths together with no trouble at all –

As if he'd heard the thought, Jace's eyes dropped to Simon's lips, and Simon felt his whole body clench tight.

"Simon," Jace murmured, and Simon was aware of every place their bodies touched, thigh to chest and the blonde's fingers like manacles on his wrists, like brands, "there's something I have to tell you."

Simon swallowed. _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_, and, Christ in high heels Jace was definitely, 100% leaning down and, and _you have a boyfriend I'm not allowed to kiss you!_

"What?" he asked shakily. He could feel Jace's breath on his lips. Half of him was screaming that this was completely not okay, because _Alec_, and also, while they were on the subject, there was the issue of the shiny-sharp-MARRIAGE PROPOSAL, aka _Simiel_. And the other half wanted to lick his way into Jace's mouth. _If he kisses you, you're going to have to bite him_, Simon told himself regretfully. _It's the only moral thing you can do_. Since he literally could not pull away when he was _on the floor_.

Jace paused a bare centimetre from Simon's lips. _Alec Alec Alec_, Simon chanted, his heart pounding.

"You," Jace said huskily, "hit like a jaculus demon."

There was a pause. Simon's lust-fogged brain struggled to process the lack of kissing. "Um," he managed. "Is that...good?"

Jace smirked. "Jaculi demons don't have arms."

_We are processing your request..._

"You _dick_," Simon snapped. Embarrassment burned in his cheeks, and he shoved up in a useless attempt to get Jace off him. "Get off me!"

Jace laughed and released him, rolling onto his back on the floor. Simon sat up, cursing himself, and all Shadowhunters everywhere, and stupidly handsome blonde ones in particular. He rubbed his hands over his face, slipping his fingers under his glasses to press against his eyelids. Adrenalin and thwarted desire mixed like oil and water in his stomach.

Jace folded his arms behind his head. "Although," he added, as if completely unaware of the picture he made, sprawled and smirking and his _shirt_, "it does have wings."

"What does?" Guilt poured into the messy, sour cocktail in his gut, because he shouldn't be wanting Jace at all.

"A jaculus demon. It has wings."

"You're still talking about that?" Simon sighed, and lowered his hands. "What the hell just happened?"

Jace didn't pretend not to understand. "You stopped thinking."

On the other hand, he seemed to think _Simon_ would understand. "Try again. And pretend I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

Jace stretched. Simon caught a glimpse of taut stomach and looked away sharply. "You were raised in the mundane world," Jace said. "Your mind thinks only a certain level of strength and speed is possible for you. But it's wrong. You're a Shadowhunter; the power of the Nephilim is already inside you. And when you were angry enough to stop thinking and just _move_, your mind got out of your body's way and you used it."

_Mind over matter,_ Simon thought. _Okay. That makes...a kind of sense._ Or it would, if you tossed out things like, oh, the _laws of physics_ and decided the world ran on comic-book rules instead. He rubbed his temples and sighed again. _What is my life? _

Then he realised he really _did_ have superpowers now, and grinned like an idiot.

"You were something beautiful there, for the first few seconds," Jace continued musingly, and Simon glanced at him, stunned. Jace ignored his shock, frowning up at the ceiling consideringly. "Before you started thinking again."

_Beautiful_. The way a sword was supposed to be, Simon understood Jace to mean; a weapon, or maybe something wild and natural. A river, some kind of animal. He didn't mean Simon's face, or his body; Jace was talking about something more intrinsic. Which...actually made it more of a compliment, not less. If the strangest one Simon had ever received.

"Of course, I was letting you hit me," Jace said, and Simon had to laugh at the grin Jace flashed him, cheeky and challenging and he had to consciously stop himself from leaning down and kissing him, putting his mouth on that grin. It seemed like the most natural response in the world, so much so that it was jarring to remember that, actually, no. No, it wasn't, and it shouldn't be. They weren't together, and they weren't going to be, and Simon had to get out of here before he forgot that.

Or worse, stopped caring.

"Well, if I'm that hopeless, then this is clearly a waste of time. You know what we should do instead? Watch a movie!" He was speaking too fast, and Jace's smile was slipping into confusion, but Simon was already pushing himself up to his feet, swiping up Simiel almost on instinct. "Seriously, you guys, your lack of pop culture is appalling. I consider it my duty to educate all of you."

"All of you?" Jace asked warily, still on the floor. Simon nodded firmly, because Jace's ripped shirt was all the evidence he needed that they required chaperones, and – Christ on a pogo stick, _Simon had done that_, had torn Jace's shirt, and he hadn't _realised_ before –

"Yes," Simon said hurriedly, "all of you. Yes. Definitely." He smiled, and hoped it didn't come off too manic. "Let's go find Isabelle and Alec, shall we?"

It wasn't until they were leaving the training room that Simon realised he hadn't thought about Clary once.

* * *

NOTES

In canon, Simon learns archery at B'nai B'rith summer camp. However, B'nai B'rith is a Jewish organisation, and Simon is not Jewish in this fic. (Which saddens me greatly, because Simon's faith is one of my favourite aspects of his character in canon. But I couldn't work it into this fic believably).

'Hell Boy camp' does in fact exist, as you will learn if you google. For the sake of this fic, it takes place in New York state, although in reality it doesn't.


	12. Chapter 12

Jace managed to change into a new shirt before they called Alec and Isabelle to join them in the blonde's room, for which Simon was grateful. But after that it got a little weird.

Simon had envisioned them all sitting down on a sofa to watch something on an actual tv screen – there were ways of connecting an iPad to a television screen and Simon had planned to use them. But it was not to be, because it turned out that the Institute did not have sofas _or_ a tv. It did not have any kind of recc room, entertainment system, or any variation of communal gathering room that did not feature boardroom like tables where adult Shadowhunters could meet and discuss Very Important Things.

Simon was, once again, reminded that he _did not want_ to become a Shadowhunter.

"You know what, I'm going to take a shower while you guys figure things out," he declared, although he might have saved his breath. They were still in Jace's room, Isabelle was playing with Simon's iPad, and Jace and Alec were discussing where they should hold their movie-watching; no one was paying a speck of attention to Simon.

That was fine with him. It prevented any awkwardness arising from showering on the other side of the door from his maybe-fiancé.

He wondered if it was possible for a seraph blade to glitter _mockingly._ Simiel seemed to, when he switched it into the pocket of his pyjama pants after the shower.

When he emerged, towelling his hair, the Shadowhunters had spread blankets on the floor – Jace's, and some from the surrounding bedrooms, it looked like – because the bed was too narrow for them all to lie on together. Jace had taken possession of the iPad, Isabelle was arranging bowls of snacks on the floor, and Alec watched it all bemusedly from where he was perched on the bed.

"They came out of a bag, Jace," Alec was saying as Jace poked a bowl of popcorn warily. "I watched her pour them."

"She didn't touch them, did she?" Jace muttered, too low for Isabelle to hear. "Ah, Simon. Come here and help me defend the popcorn."

Simon sat down on the edge of the blankets, reaching for the iPad. "What do they need defending from? Gremlins?"

Jace gave him an odd look. "Why would gremlins want popcorn?"

"Because it's after midnight. If they eat it they'll turn into – you know what? Never mind." Clearly that was another film that had not made its way into the cinemas of Idris. If Idris had cinemas, which was something Simon was beginning to doubt. "That's for another day." He scrolled through movies. "Right now it's far more vital that you see things like _this_."

Isabelle peeked over his shoulder. "_Lord of the Rings_," she read aloud. "What's that?"

"Absolutely necessary watching," Simon declared, propping the iPad up against a bowl. "Epic quests, magic rings, elves, war, sword fights, monsters... I think you'll feel right at home."

"I for one have never been on a quest, epic or otherwise," Jace commented.

"That's easily fixed," Simon said. "Go now to the door of the great Room in search of that most curséd of objects, the Lightbringer. You must cross the ocean of Blanket and the vast plains of Rug, battling ravenous popcorn chimera and cannibal dustbunnies. And when you have vanquished these mighty foes – "

Deadpan, Alec got up and switched off the lights.

"Hey!" Simon protested as Jace and Isabelle laughed. "I wasn't finished!"

"Yes," Alec said firmly, "you were." It was hard to tell in the dimmed room, but Simon thought Alec might have been almost grinning as he came and lay down on the blankets.

Which raised the interesting question of seating arrangements. Simon was currently perched on the edge, but he needed to be closer to the iPad (because he was not letting the technologically illiterate Shadowhunters anywhere near it); Izzy wasn't yet on the blankets at all, idly trailing her fingers through a bowl of Reese's Pieces; Alec was Simon's mirror image, lying on the _other_ edge; and Jace was happily ensconced in the middle, munching on popcorn as if the movie had already started.

This...could be potentially awkward.

Luckily, Isabelle quickly realised the same thing, and commandeered the centre spot for Simon. "He's the only one who knows how to work that thing," she pointed out when Jace protested. The blonde muttered something uncomplimentary, but Isabelle clearly had her brothers whipped – ironic, that, considering her weapon of choice – because the blonde slunk sideways obediently nonetheless. That left Simon in the middle, with Jace on one side and Isabelle on the other, and Alec only having to move to reach the snacks.

Which was fine. It wasn't like Jace could try anything, with them all lying on their stomachs and Alec right there. Simon figured it was safe enough, even if he was almost painfully aware of Jace's body in the dark, bare inches from his. It was too easy to remember what it had felt like with Jace pressing him into the floor.

Simon swallowed and tapped the iPad. "All right, no talking," he ordered, although no one had been. "This is one of the best films of all time and I will gut anyone who interrupts."

Isabelle snorted, but Simon ignored her. "Okay then, here we go." And he pressed play.

)0(

_The room was all gold and white, with walls that gleamed like porcelain, and a high roof that shone like sunlight on clear water. Simon wore a white suit decorated with gold brocade, and there was a leather cuff around his wrist with a glimmer of crystal on it. He tried to look around; everything glittered and gleamed, jewels flashing white fire at throats and ears, beautiful clothes spinning in a dizzying rainbow around him. It was like being inside a Faberge egg._

"_You see someone more interesting than me?" asked Sebastian. In the dream he was an expert dancer, leading Simon through the crowd as if he were a feather in a breeze. Simon's first lover was wearing all black like a Shadowhunter, his tailored suit decorated with silver to match Simon's gold. It looked good on him, called attention to his graceful shoulders and the raven-wing darkness of his hair. He was just as painfully handsome as he had been the first – and last – time Simon had seen him, almost a year ago._

"_It's this place," Simon said. "I've never seen anything like it." He turned again as they passed a champagne fountain: an enormous silver dish, the centrepiece an angel with a Romanesque vase pouring sparkling wine down its bare back. People were dipping their glasses into the dish, talking and laughing. The angel's wings fluttered as Simon passed, throwing arcs of champagne droplets to glitter in the air like mist._

"_Welcome to the Glass City," said a voice that wasn't Sebastian's. Simon realised that Sebastian was gone, and Jace had replaced him. Like Simon the blonde was wearing white, and the ghosts of his black runes showed through the thin cotton of his shirt. There was a bronze chain around Jace's throat, and his hair and eyes were like sunlight. _

"_Where's Sebastian?" Simon asked as they spun again around the champagne fountain. Simon saw Isabelle there, and Alec, both of them in royal blue. They were holding hands, with matching silver rings on their fingers. _

"_This place is not for monsters," said Jace. His hands were careful and cool, and Simon felt aware of every cell of his body that touched one of Jace's._

"_What do you mean?"_

_Jace leaned close, until his mouth was against Simon's ear, warm and sweet. "Wake up, Simon," he whispered. "Wake up."_

)0(

Simon came awake like a gunshot, gasping, and instantly panicked at the hard grip on his wrists. He lashed out instinctively, kicking hard, and heard a familiar voice curse. "Jace?"

"Yeah." The blonde was sitting next to Simon on the blankets, looking distinctly annoyed; his hair was mussed as if he'd only just woken himself.

Had he been sleeping beside Simon?

"Let go of me," Simon said carefully, and Jace's eyes flooded with realisation.

"Sorry." Simon wondered if he was imagining the way Jace's fingers lingered on his wrists before slipping away. "You tried to kick me."

"Considering what I've been through the last few days, you really shouldn't have expected my waking up _restrained _to go well." _I thought Valentine had me. _Simon sat up. Isabelle and Alec were gone, and the iPad had gone into sleep mode. "Did you guys like the movie?"

Jace grinned. "Alec demands we watch the sequels tomorrow, and I think Isabelle plans on pestering Hodge to buy one of those things," he pointed at the iPad "for the Institute."

"Success." Simon pushed his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Why'd you wake me up?"

"Why, were you having a good dream?"

Simon thought of the ballroom, the almost-kiss against his ear and dancing with Sebastian. It must have been thinking he saw the other boy at Vatican that had Simon dreaming about him. "A weird one, anyway," he murmured. _Wake up, Simon. _

Jace unfolded to his feet. "Hodge said one of the Silent Brothers has arrived to see you. He offered to wake you up himself, but since it's six a.m., I figured you'd be less cranky if you had something nice to look at."

Simon's tired brain – _six a.m.? Urgh_ – struggled with that for a moment. "You mean you?"

"What else?"

Simon snorted a laugh. "Do you have to walk through doors sideways, with that ego?" He flapped his hand at Jace. "Give me a minute. I'll change and be right out."

Once the door had closed behind Jace, Simon grabbed a handful of slightly stale popcorn and got to his feet, munching. Despite the hour the room was already becoming warm, thick with humid heat, and Simon wasted no time changing out of his pyjamas and into clean clothes, once again automatically moving Simiel over into his new pocket. Maybe it had some deeper meaning he and Jace would have to sort out eventually, but it was also a weapon – and he was no longer comfortable declaring he would never need one. Who knew what today was going to throw at him?

As he searched through his rucksack for clean socks, he found the little card he'd been given at Vatican. He'd shoved it in the bag after the shower; now he held it up to the light, frowning at the script. The card was thin black paper, and the text looked like someone had poured glitter into a bottle of gold ink and then discovered the joys of calligraphy. It announced a gathering at the humble home of Magnus the Magnificent Warlock, and promised guests 'a rapturous evening of delights beyond your wildest imaginings'. Simon took a moment to calculate the date, glanced at the one on the card, and worked out that the party was tomorrow night.

_Which apparently Lint is performing at. _He was going to have to call Eric. _And_ Clary; he hadn't texted her his safecall yet. But she was probably asleep by now; it could wait until later.

Shoving the card into his bag to consider when he was more awake, Simon finished getting dressed and went out to find Jace in the hallway. Church was with him, circling restlessly and muttering, if a cat could be said to mutter.

Jace grinned at him. "I know what your shirt means."

"As well you should," Simon told him, trying not to grin. His shirt featured a picture of a box of chips tucked in with an onion ring – and the text _One Ring to Rule Them All._ "I'd have been very disappointed if you missed the reference after the movie." He glanced at the cat. "What's up with him?"

"The Silent Brothers make him nervous."

Remembering the conversation they'd had about the Brothers outside Vatican, Simon wondered if he should feel more nervous than he did. Maybe it would hit him harder when he was more awake, but as he followed Jace down the hall he was just grateful for the coolness of the thick stone walls.

Church did not come with them.

Simon felt his first brush of nerves when he realised they were going to the library; he'd gotten the feeling that that was Hodge's particular hang-out, aside from the greenhouse. More than the thought of telepathic Shadowhunters, Simon didn't want to face Hodge just yet. But no such luck; the library was dark, lit only by the soft light of dawn filtering through the ceiling windows, but it was enough to make out Hodge sitting behind his desk.

Simon slid his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around Simiel.

Another figure stepped out of the shadows; what Simon had dismissed as a patch of deeper darkness was actually a person, hidden behind the hood of a thick, parchment-coloured robe that covered the the individual completely. A complicated line of symbols – Simon would have bet money they were runes – ran along the robe's sleeves and hem, a dark brown that was eerily reminiscent of dried blood.

_Okay,_ Simon thought, _maybe Isabelle was right._ Because this was pretty creepy already, and he hadn't even seen the person's – the man's? Silent _Brothers_, so the robed figure was probably a man – face yet.

"This," said Hodge, "is Brother Jeremiah of the Silent City."

Simon shot him a look, but Hodge's face was impassive. Either Hodge was pretending their last conversation had never happened, or any talk they might have about it was being put aside for the moment. Simon turned back as the man – Jeremiah – walked towards them. He was moved completely silently; even his robe and cloak made not the slightest rustle, and if not for the strange – but not unpleasant – smell around him Simon would have wondered if the man was an illusion, or a ghost.

"And this, Jeremiah," Hodge said, rising from the desk, "is Simon Fray, the boy I wrote to you about."

"Hi," Simon said. The hooded face turned towards him slowly, and Simon felt a chill run up his spine and into his hair. But Brother Jeremiah did not answer.

_Definitely, definitely creepy. _

"I decided you were right, Jace," Hodge continued.

"I _was_ right," Jace answered. "I usually am."

Hodge, as Simon would have, ignored this. "I sent a letter to the Clave about all of this, but Simon's memories are his own. Only he can decide how he wants to deal with the contents of his own head. If he wants the help of the Silent Brothers, he should have that choice."

Although Hodge didn't look at him, Simon knew the words were directed more at him than Jace. It sounded like a peace offering, but Simon hesitated, suddenly unsure. The shadowy figure of the Silent Brother was so – well, _silent_. Silence and darkness clung to Jeremiah like a miasma, black and cold, and even though Simon told himself he was being an idiot, it was still unnerving.

Plus, the world had demons in it. Maybe it wasn't so unreasonable to be afraid.

_This is Jocelyn's son?_

Simon jumped. The words – they entered his head as if they were his own, but they weren't, and okay, now he was _very _unnerved.

"Yes," said Hodge, adding "but his father was a mundane."

_That does not matter,_ said Jeremiah (because which other telepathic Shadowhunter could it have been?) _The blood of the Clave is dominant. _

And just like that, Simon's wariness was forgotten for his interest. Clave blood – Shadowhunter blood – was dominant? What did that mean on a biological level? There was a Shadowhunter gene, and it trumped – whatever made you a mundane? Simon only had high-school biology, and that wasn't nearly enough to work it out, but suddenly he wanted to hit the books with his mom, the way they always did when one of them thought of a question neither knew the answer to –

His trail of thought stopped dead with a twist of pain. _Mom._

_Do you think Valentine _listens_, when your mother begs him not to –_

"Why do you call her Jocelyn?" Simon asked quietly, grabbing at the first distraction he could think of. "Did you know my mom?"

"The Brothers keep records on all members of the Clave," Hodge explained. "Exhaustive records – "

"Not that exhaustive," Jace commented, "if they didn't even know she was still alive."

_It is likely that she had the assistance of a warlock in her disappearance. Most Shadowhunters cannot so easily escape the Clave. _There was no emotion in Jeremiah's 'voice'; if he was upset that someone had tricked his order, he didn't sound it.

Simon nodded slowly. "But if she went to so much trouble to escape, why would she take the Mortal Cup with her? It would make more sense to leave it behind – so why does Valentine think she has it?" He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Hodge in particular would say about it.

"Jocelyn above all people would have known what would happen if Valentine had the Cup," Hodge said, not disappointing him. "And I imagine she didn't trust the Clave to hold on to it. Not after Valentine got it away from them in the first place."

That did sound like his mother. And for a moment, Simon felt a spark of amusement that he and his mom clearly had the same disparaging opinion of the Clave.

"Jocelyn turned against her husband when she found out what he intended to do with the Cup," Hodge continued. "It's not unreasonable to assume she would do everything in her power to keep the Cup from falling into his hands. The Clave themselves would have looked first to her if they'd thought she was still alive."

"My mom, Valentine," Simon counted aloud. "Sounds like no one the Clave thinks is dead is ever actually dead. I'd recommend dental records."

"My father's dead," said Jace, a cold, steely edge to his voice. "I don't need dental records to tell me that."

Simon felt stricken. "Sorry," he said quietly, ashamed of himself.

_That is enough,_ Brother Jeremiah said. _There is truth to be learned here, if you are patient enough to listen to it. _

He raised his hands and flung back his hood. Simon blinked hard and forced himself not to react any more visibly to Jeremiah's smoothly bald head, pale as paper with only dark shadows where his eyes ought to have been. Horrible black stitches, stark against his white skin, had been sewn through his lips, sealing his mouth closed, and Simon flashed back to what Isabelle had said.

_They mutilate themselves._

Simon wanted to be sick.

_The Brothers of the Silent City do not lie_, Jeremiah told him. _If you want the truth from me, you shall have it, but I shall ask of you the same in return._

"That sounds fair," Simon said hoarsely. He took a deep breath, praying that Jace was right – praying that he had some clue to his mother's whereabouts buried in his mind. That would easily make it worth letting this very scary person inside his head. "What do I have to do?"

Brother Jeremiah nodded once, but didn't answer verbally. He moved towards Simon, smooth and soundless as a shadow, and Simon fought the urge to flinch. He wanted to ask if it would hurt, but couldn't do it – not in front of Hodge, and in front of Jace. _Jace has probably never asked 'will it hurt?' in his life_, Simon thought, glancing at the blonde for a moment. Strangely, the thought made him feel better, made it easier to bear when the Silent Brother's white, skeletal hands came up to cup Simon's face. Up close, Simon could see that Jeremiah's fingers were covered in elegant, delicate runes, startlingly beautiful for such a terrifying man. Simon could feel the power in them, a shimmering, electric charge that was hot and thrilling against his skin – but not a real warmth, he realised, in the same way that Jeremiah's voice wasn't a real voice. He felt it in his head, felt it with something deeper than skin.

He closed his eyes, but not before seeing a flicker of worry cross Jace's expression.

Out of the darkness behind his eyelids, colours burst and swirled like the rainbow sheen on an oil slick. Gradually he began to feel a pressure – like, but not like, the thick heaviness at the bottom of an Olympic swimming pool. It grew steadily, and it was pulling at him – he was reminded abruptly of a Dementor sucking the soul from Harry on the train to Hogwarts; the shimmering effect they'd used in the movie, the way the rest of the world had blurred and there was only the drawing pull extracting something terribly vital from him – that embodied the sensation perfectly. Simon's fingers tightened reflexively on Simiel, seeking comfort; he felt as though he was being crushed, laid flat against a stone floor while something unbearably heavy pressed down on him, a block of cement or – or Dorothy's house, fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East, but Simon had no ruby slippers to wish himself away –

He heard himself gasp and abruptly everything was ice, frosted and frozen. He was on an icy street, grey buildings above him and to every side, freezing whiteness lashing at him like shrapnel –

"That's _enough_," Jace said sharply, slicing through the winter scene like a beam of sunlight, and the snow vanished. Simon's eyes snapped open.

He was in the library at the Institute, and it was summer in New York, not winter in some place grey. Hodge and Jace were watching him anxiously, but Brother Jeremiah stood statue-still, marble and pearl. Simon's left hand – his right was in his pocket clutching his seraph blade – was stinging.

When he looked down at it, he could see ugly red lines his nails had bitten into his skin.

"_Jace,_" Hodge said.

"Look at his hands." Jace nodded at Simon, who clenched his hand again to hide the marks.

"I'm fine," he said, only a little shakily. The terrible pressure was gone, but his face and hair were wet with sweat, his shirt sticking to his spine as if he'd been soaked with glue.

_There is a block in your mind,_ Brother Jeremiah said. _Your memories cannot be reached._

"You mean he's repressed his memories?" Jace asked.

_No. I mean they have been blocked from his conscious mind by a spell. I cannot break it here. He will have to come to the Bone City and stand before the Brotherhood._

_So Dorothea was right,_ Simon thought.

Jace looked at his tutor. Seeing as how the Silent Brothers had been his idea, Simon thought Jace looked very pale. "Hodge, he shouldn't have to go if he doesn't – "

"It's okay." Simon looked at Brother Jeremiah. "I'll go." Although again, anywhere called the Bone City sounded like a deeply unpleasant place.

"Fine," Jace said. "Then I'll go with you."

)0(

Walking out of the Institute was similar, Simon decided, to what it would feel like if he'd used Dorothea's portal to visit the Amazon basin; one moment, he was sheltered by the cool stone of the cathedral, and the next, the air was thick enough to drink with a spoon and hot enough that Simon was quickly drenched with heat-sweat to match his previous chill/fear-sweat.

It did not seem an auspicious start to the day.

"Why aren't we going with Brother Jeremiah?" Simon asked, honestly confused – and maybe a little resentful that he had to face the heat – as Jace led them to the corner of the street. They might have been the only two people in the world – until a garbage truck appeared and slowly began working its way down the block. That, Simon thought with amuesment, should sufficiently quash any romantic urges the privacy might evoke. "Is he ashamed to be seen with us?"

"More _you _than _us_, I think," Jace mused. He somehow managed to look cool despite the rising temperature; Simon couldn't decide whether to smack him or demand his secret.

"What?" Simon demanded indignantly. "What's wrong with me?"

"Your shirt features the powers of an onion ring," Jace reminded him.

Simon looked down. He'd forgotten about that. "Oh. You're probably right; I would totally ruin the whole occult serial-killer vibe he has going on."

Jace snorted. "Something like that."

They'd stopped for Simon's phone before leaving; Simon pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open, staring at the time. "Do you think Clary would be up yet?" he asked.

Jace rolled his eyes and stared up at the sky as if it were about to break open and reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. "With everything that's going on, you're worried about _her?_"

Simon shook his head. "Not worried. Just..." Well. Maybe worried. But about himself, not Clary. Wasn't it strange that he'd barely thought of her at all? He'd felt his heart breaking last night – and then Jace had swept in, and there'd been so much else to deal with that he'd just...forgotten.

Lost in thought, it took him a few seconds to realise that Jace was saying something. When Simon blinked at him, he saw a wry grin scrawl across his face. "What?" Simon asked warily.

"I wish you'd stop desperately trying to get my attention like this," he said. "It's become embarrassing."

Simon felt himself flush, and pushed his phone into his pocket. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," he informed him.

"I can't help it. I use my rapier wit to hide my inner pain."

Simon forgot himself and laughed. Jace looked smug.

And then Simon stopped laughing, because the strangest vehicle he'd ever seen had appeared at the corner of the street and was coming towards them. He stared, wide-eyed as a fairytale coach pulled up in front of the two boys – but instead of being made of glass like Cinderella's, the carriage was a black opal laid out on black velvet. Shimmering streaks of fiery blue and violet gleamed in its ebony surface, and its windows were tinted dark like a limo's; the wheels were black, and the leather trimmings, and the two horses rigged up to the thing were huge and black, snarling and pawing at the tarmac beneath their hooves more like wolves than anything equine. Brother Jeremiah sat on the metal driver's bench, the reins clutched in his gloved hands.

"What," Simon asked hoarsely, "is everyone else seeing?"

"A very nice limo," Jace replied. "Now get in." When Simon remained frozen, Jace huffed and grabbed Simon's arm, hauling him up and in through the coach's open door. He swung himself up in after, pulling the door closed behind him, and instantly the carriage began to move. He fell back in the seat – plush and thick and amazingly comfortable – and looked over at Simon. "A personal escort to the Bone City is nothing to turn your nose up at."

"The Bone City? We're still going there? And here I thought you were taking me to the ball."

Jace smirked. "I'm afraid I forgot the corsage," he drawled. "Will you ever forgive me?"

"Well, I'm certainly not putting out," Simon answered before he could stop himself, and saw Jace's eyes turn sharp and hot.

Hurriedly Simon turned his attention to the window, mentally kicking himself. But quickly the distraction became real; he would never have thought a horse and carriage would fare well in the Manhattan traffic, but Brother Jeremiah had them clattering smoothly downtown much faster than Simon would have guessed possible. Possibly this was helped by the fact that no one else on the road seemed able to see them; when a yellow cab switched lanes and cut them off, the black horses _jumped on top of the taxi_. Simon was still gaping when the carriage, rather than rolling clumsily along the ground, floated up behind the horses, rolling lightly and silently up and over the cab and down the other side.

"What the – how did – _what?_" The cab driver was smoking and staring ahead as the carriage came back down with a jolt. The man was completely oblivious.

"Just because you can see through glamour now..."

Simon shook his head. "It's just – kind of insane, to face up to the fact that there's this whole other world out there. One that most people can't even _see._" Amazing. But insane. "I know I couldn't see it either, until recently, but..."

"Now you see the world as it is – infinite," Jace said with a dry, private smile.

Simon snorted. "Don't quote Blake at me."

Jace's smile turned less dry. "I didn't think you'd recognise it. You don't strike me as someone who reads a lot of poetry."

"No, but I _am_ a musician," Simon reminded him. "And everyone knows that quote because of the Doors."

Jace looked blank.

Simon groaned. "There's so much to teach you," he said mournfully. "Harry Potter. Gremlins. Iron Man. Doctor Who, Supernatural, Sherlock. And now music too. I'm going to end up a wrinkly old man, and I'll _still _be trying to teach you how to work tumblr and the difference between Romeo and Juliet and Dean and Cas."

Jace frowned.

"There is no difference, they're both epic love stories. Although I always thought Shakespeare meant R&J as a satire." Simon waved the thought away. "But you must know _some_ music. You were playing the piano the other day."

The carriage lurched upward again. Simon's hands flew to clutch at his seat and stared out the window – they were rolling along the top of a downtown M1 bus. From here he could see the upper floors of old apartment buildings, decorated with protective gargoyles and elaborate cornices.

"I was just messing around," Jace said without looking at Simon. "My father insisted I learn to play an instrument."

Dangerous territory. Simon searched for something innocuous to say. "He sounds a little strict," he tried tentatively.

"Not at all," Jace said sharply. "He indulged me. He taught me everything – weapons training, demonology, arcane lore, ancient languages. He gave me anything I wanted. Horses, weapons, books, even a hunting falcon."

Simon thought of Christmas morning with his mom and Luke, unwrapping books and chemistry sets, movie memorabilia and CDs. There'd been PLAYMOBIL and do-it-yourself rocket ships and chocolate coins in his stocking, and he felt a lump in his throat, because Jace's life, by contrast, sounded cold and bleak. "Sounds like a fairytale," he said quietly. _The kind where the prince is locked away in a tower,_ he didn't say.

Jace looked startled. He looked down at his hands, avoiding Simon's gaze. Jace had slim and careful hands, hands that Simon could more easily imagine dancing over a piano than holding a weapon. A ring Simon had not really noticed before flashed on his finger; it was solid and heavy-looking, not feminine in the slightest. A letter W was carved into the dark silver, surrounded by a pattern of stars. W for Wayland? Simon wondered.

"Why are you here?" Simon heard himself ask quietly. Jace's head snapped up.

"The Bone City can be unnerving," the blonde said after a pause. "I thought – "

Simon shook his head impatiently. His heart was pounding. "Not _here_, in the coach. I mean – why are you helping me? Why do you care?"

It was a stupid question. He knew what Jace would say – that the Mortal Cup needed to be found, or maybe that Valentine was the Shadowhunter equivalent to a war criminal and had to be brought to justice. And yet – and yet, as the silence stretched out thick and heavy between them, Simon didn't think those were the reasons running through Jace's mind. His gold eyes glittered, like the light fracturing on a seraph blade, on _Simiel_ –

Jace looked away first. "Valentine killed my father," he said roughly. "You're my best chance of finding him before the Clave does – and killing him myself."

Woah. _That_ had not been what Simon expected. _At all._ Simon made himself breathe, and told himself he wasn't disappointed. "I thought you told Hodge that those two guys we saw killed your dad?"

Jace wasn't looking at him, and Simon went quiet, his voice stopped in his throat. The coach was rolling smoothly through Astor Place now, deftly dodging a New York University tram as it wove through traffic. Pedestrians on the pavement looked as though they were drowning under the heavy weight of the air. Homeless kids were clustered around the base of a brass statue, their cardboard signs pleading for money. Simon felt his attention caught by two of them in particular, as though he'd swallowed a fishing hook; a girl whose bald head was so smooth she reminded him of Brother Jeremiah, and her companion, a dark-skinned boy whose dreadlocks did nothing to hide the dozens of piercings decorating his face. The boy turned his head as if he were watching the carriage – as if he could see it – and Simon saw that one of his eyes was clouded, pupil-less, before the coach turned a corner and he lost sight of the pair.

"I was ten." When Simon turned to look at Jace, his expression was as blank and emotionless as his voice. "We lived in a manor house, out in the country. My father always said it was safer away from people. I heard them coming up the drive and went to tell him. He told me to hide, so I hid. Under the stairs. I saw those men come in. They had others with them. Not men. Forsaken. They overpowered my father and cut his throat. The blood ran across the floor. It soaked my shoes. I didn't move."

Simon sat frozen, knew he was staring and couldn't make himself stop. "God, Jace," he whispered when it became clear that Jace was finished speaking. His eyes stung, and he felt the horror of it in his throat, a deep, black hole of heartbreak in the pit of his stomach. It was too easy to see it – far from making it easier to bear, the calm, bare-bones way Jace spoke, without flourish or description, made Simon's heart ache for the young man in front of him. And for the ten year old who'd had to see that. "I'm so sorry."

In the dark of the carriage, Jace's eyes gleamed. "I don't understand why mundanes always apologise for things that aren't their fault."

"I'm not taking the blame for it. I'm just – I'm sorry that it happened. I'm sorry you had to go through that – sorry for your pain. And that the universe sucks. I'd change it if I could." The intensity in his voice caught them both by surprise, he saw from the startled glance Jace gave him. But Simon meant it. If he could have – if he'd been a real superhero, he'd have done anything he could to turn back the clock and save Jace's father, save Jace from having to ever see something so terrible.

_It soaked my shoes._ Simon looked out the window and told himself that Jace would not appreciate his tears.

"I'm not unhappy," Jace said suddenly, as if it were important for Simon to know that. "Only people with no purpose are unhappy. I've got a purpose."

"Do you mean killing demons, or getting revenge for your father?"

"Both."

Simon would have been surprised at any other answer, but it seemed so sad. Sad and hollow. "And he'd really want you to kill those men?"

"And Valentine. They're Circle members; he's the one who ordered my father murdered." He saw Simon's expression. "A Shadowhunter who kills another of his brothers is worse than a demon and should be put down like one," he recited, and Simon wondered, sickly, which of Jace's textbooks said that. Wondered how old Jace had been when he was taught that mantra.

"Are all demons evil, though?" he asked. "You guys have the Accords with vampires and werewolves, so clearly you don't think all of _them _are evil."

Jace shot him an exasperated look. "It's not the same thing at all. Vampires, werewolves, even warlocks, they're part human. Part of this world, born in it. They belong here. But demons come from other worlds. They're interdimensional parasites. They come to a world and use it up. They can't build, just destroy; they can't make, only use. They drain a place to ashes and when it's dead, they move on to the next one. It's life they want – not just your life or mine, but all the life of this world, its rivers and cities, its oceans, its everything. And the only thing that stands between them and the destruction of all _this_ – " he pointed at the window, at the passing streets and cars and people walking to work, " – is the Nephilim."

Simon turned that over in his mind for a while – and eventually decided that either Jace's story didn't make sense, or there was more to it than that. It didn't make sense that humanity were the only sentient race who weren't out to destroy and devour everything – although, he allowed that that it was a matter of opinion that humans _weren't _like that. "There's no other world like ours? Everything's just – dead ash and hungry monsters?"

"I didn't say that. There are probably other living worlds like ours. But only demons can travel between them. Because they're mostly noncorporeal, or partly, but nobody knows exactly why. Plenty of warlocks have tried it, and it's never worked. Nothing from Earth can pass through the wardings between worlds. If we could," he mused, "we might be able to block them from coming here, but nobody's even been able to figure out how to do that. In fact, more and more of them are coming through. There used to be only small demon invasions into this world, easily contained. But even in my lifetime more and more of them spill in through the wardings. The Clave is always having to dispatch Shadowhunters, and a lot of times they don't come back."

_Then change your tactics_, Simon wanted to say. _Use crossbows, make seraph bolts instead of seraph blades. Keep your distance as much as possible. _"Is that why you want the Mortal Cup back?" he asked instead. "So you could make more Shadowhunters?"

"We want it back so Valentine can't create his child army," Jace corrected him. "But it's true, it would help. A lot of us die young – our numbers are slowly dwindling."

"If Shadowhunter blood is dominant, I don't see why you can't just have kids with mundanes," Simon said, looking out the window. "Fresh genetics, and the numbers go up. Sounds like a win-win to me." He glanced back at Jace and raised his eyebrows. "Or do Nephilim not like reproducing?"

Jace burst out laughing. "Sure," he gasped, grinning widely. "We _love_ reproducing. It's one of our favourite things."

The smooth motion of the carriage suddenly turned bouncy and clattering. A glance showed Simon that they were now travelling over cobblestones. "We're here," Jace declared, staring out of the other window as the coach passed through a dark iron gate, woven through with thick vines. _New York City Marble Cemetery,_ the arch above them announced.

"I thought they stopped burying people in Manhattan a hundred years ago?" Simon asked.

"The Bone City has been here longer than that."

The carriage stopped, and Jace reached past Simon to open the door. They had reached a square of greenery surrounded by high marble walls, soft with moss like a jewellery box lined with emerald velvet. Jace jumped down, and Simon followed him, with only a brief hesitation at the long drop. Brother Jeremiah was descending from the driver's bench. There was something off about the picture he made, and it wasn't the fact that his robes made no sound as he moved.

Simon started when he realised what it was. The Silent Brother cast no shadow.

If Brother Jeremiah noticed Simon's shock, he didn't comment on it. _Come_, he said simply. He led them towards the garden's darkened centre, and when Jace followed unhesitatingly Simon went with him, with only a glance back at the bright lights of Second Avenue. The glow caught on the garden's pearly walls, on the lines of text carved into the stone, and Simon felt a shiver of surprise when he realised that the words were names, names and dates. Grave markers.

It wasn't frightening. But when he spun in a circle and saw that the entire garden was covered in names... So many dead. So much loss.

Were they Shadowhunter names?

"Hurry up," Jace said impatiently, jolting Simon out of his reverie. He ran to catch up to where Jace and Jeremiah were paused in front of a marble statue, one slightly taller than the Silent Brother. It was angel, and Simon, remembering the myth of the Shadowhunters' creation, supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It was beautiful – beautiful and _fierce_, so that it was easy to imagine such a creature giving rise to a race of demon hunters. But instead of the sword Simon expected, it cradled a cup in its graceful hands, a chalice studded with marble jewels.

"Is that the Mortal Cup?" he asked. It looked just like the one his mom had drawn for Dorothea's deck, but since Jocelyn was a Shadowhunter, it made sense she might draw inspiration from what she knew.

Jace nodded. "And that," he added, pointing to the Latin inscription on the statue's base, almost hidden by the moss growing over it, "is the motto of the Nephilim."

Simon just looked at him, waiting patiently. _Raised a mundane, remember?_

Jace grinned. "It means 'Shadowhunters: Looking Better in Black Than the Windows of our Enemies Since 1234.'"

"It does _not!_" Simon protested, shocked into laughter.

_It means,_ Jeremiah interjected, _'The Descent into Hell is easy.'_

Simon's laughter fled like an exorcised ghost. _That's the motto of a whole PEOPLE? _He couldn't decide if it depressed him or made him angry, for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. _What is WRONG with them?_

"It's the Brothers' little joke, having that here," said Jace. "You'll see."

"Ominous," Simon commented. He watched as Brother Jeremiah withdrew a stele from somewhere – Simon didn't see how he did it – and traced a rune onto the statue's base with the faintly glowing tip. Without warning the angel's mouth suddenly dropped open in a silent scream, and Simon jerked backwards.

"Don't blink!" he yelped, unable to help himself.

Jace turned to look at him with that expression Simon was becoming very familiar with – that _what in God's name are you doing?_ expression. Jeremiah ignored him completely as a horrible hole opened up at the base of the statue. It looked just like a grave.

Simon's heart sank. "Let me guess. That's where we're going."

"Unless you see another gate to Hell," Jace said cheerily. "Come along."

Simon kept a half-serious wary eye on the statue as he followed Jace to the hole, but eventually he had to look down. Thankfully, it did not seem like he was going to have to jump down an Alice in Wonderland-esque pit – there were stone steps leading down into the darkness, complete with eminently suitable torches burning green and blue. Simon had to give points for atmosphere, even if he really wished there'd been electric lighting instead. The flames cast flickering shadows over the stairs that made him uneasy.

Jace took the stairs casually, but even he didn't seem 100% comfortable. Which really didn't make Simon feel any better, but he couldn't see what else to do but follow.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a cold hand grabbed his arm. His first – completely insane – thought was _It's the angels!_ Which turned out to be a good thing, because it meant discovering it was only Brother Jeremiah was a relief, instead of deeply disturbing and creepy.

_Do not fear_, the Silent Brother told him. His fingers dug into Simon's arm like claws, and Simon deliberately did not try and glance under Jeremiah's hood. _It would take more than a single human cry to wake these dead. _

_..._ said Simon's brain.

The second Jeremiah released him, Simon cast his pride to the winds and _bolted_ after Jace, because _oh my fucking God,_ that was probably the _least _reassuring thing he had _ever heard_. More than a _single_ cry? What about two, would two screams wake the dead? And, _human _cry? That was just _horrible_. What else might be down here to potentially summon the dead from their not-so-restful rest? Demons? Would a demon cry do the trick?

Simon just about managed not to jump Jace and cling to him when he found the blonde at the bottom of the steps, holding a torch he'd taken from one of the brackets. Its green light was not comforting. "You all right?"

_No!_ Simon wanted to shout. _I am not all right! The dead could potentially get up and start walking around, but I'm supposed to be okay about it because _my _screaming won't wake them up! _And oh God, _why_ did Jeremiah think Simon might scream?

He made himself nod.

"You sure? You don't want me to hold your hand?"

Simon opened his mouth to reply – and paused. His heart pounded against his ribs, and not with fear – at least, not fear of the darkness and the dead. Without letting himself think about it too deeply, he withdrew Simiel from his pocket and whispered its name, unable, now that he knew, not to taste the meaning behind it. The blade extended with the softest sound, glowing like starlight in the dark tunnel, and by its light he saw the look on Jace's face. The stunned, breathless amazement in his eyes, raw and soft and sweet, as if Simon had done something incredible.

A wedding-sword, a symbol of...something, and Simon had reached for it when he was afraid.

Simon's mouth went dry. He might as well have taken Jace's hand; the declaration probably couldn't have been any more obvious. "Like Eärendil," he managed, lifting the knife to illustrate his point.

Jace blinked, but realisation came quickly. "The gift Galadriel gave Frodo?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, and he watched Simon like...

Simon nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered if Jace was remembering the words that had accompanied that gift. _A light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out._ He looked away, breaking their stare and feeling air rush into his lungs. He'd forgotten to breathe.

He heard Jace suck in a breath too.

"No need to stand on ceremony, Brother Jeremiah," the blonde said after a pause. His voice was still a little rough. "Lead on. We'll be right behind you."

Simon jumped as the Silent Brother glided past them soundlessly. Simon had completely forgotten about him – how much had he seen? Not enough to make him care, apparently; he strode down the tunnel without a backwards glance at the boys, and after a moment Simon followed, holding Jace's proposal out in front of him against the dark.


	13. Chapter 13

First off, thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing this fic! 8D I love you all!

Alas, I have some bad news. Cassie, my epic beta of epicness, has school stuff during March. I have family and health issues (not mine, but I still have to deal with them), and ultimately, the next few chapters are going to be intense and take longer to write. SO. There will be a two week break between updates at least until the end of March - once we get to April we can hopefully get back to a weekly schedule. Thus: chapter 14 will be posted on or around the 12th of March, and chapter 15 on or around the 26th of March.

But! There will be Magnus in the next chapter! I promise!

Also: lots of you have already found my tumblr, but for those who haven't, check it out at siavahdainthemoon. _City of Shadows_ drabbles and notes get posted there all the time!

* * *

It was probably because he'd just rewatched _Fellowship of the Ring_ a few hours ago, but Simon's first glimpse of the Silent City reminded him of Moria. Incredible marble arches were carved out of the darkness like a forest of shadow and stone, almost exactly how he'd imagined the dwarf city when he'd read the books. The white rock gleamed like polished bone – or, Simon corrected himself hurriedly, because dead things were the last thing he wanted to think about just now, more like the fur of a white tiger. Bands of semi-precious black gems broke up the whiteness like a tiger's stripes, almost seeming to move in the light of Jace's torch, like muscle rippling beneath marble skin. Runes flickered on the floor, moving in and out of the shadows cast by the flame like sharks in dark water, and Simon's gut twisted with unease.

_So, Hades, you finally made it. How are things in the underworld?_

_Well, they're just fine. You know, a little dark, a little gloomy. And, as always, hey, full of dead people. What are you gonna do?_

Simon grinned to himself – Hades had always been his favourite Disney villain – but there wasn't much that could make him feel comfortable in these surroundings. The feeling only increased as they passed under the first of the arches to find what was unmistakably a tomb – the old fashioned, expensive kind, a big square of white stone almost like a house, which only made Simon wonder what might live in it. He had a sick feeling that he was going to find out.

"It's a mausoleum," Jace said, lifting his torch so the green light fell on the tomb's door. Somehow it was not reassuring that the door was bolted with iron and a complex, deadly-looking rune. "We bury our dead here."

He walked on. Simon paused a second, hypnotised by the rune on the door, before he shook himself out of it and hurried after the blonde. "I distinctly remember you telling me these guys were librarians," he hissed under his breath, not wanting Jeremiah to hear him.

_There are many levels to the Silent City_, Brother Jeremiah said, and Simon jumped. _And not all the dead are buried here, of course. There is another ossuary in Idris, much larger. But on this level are the mausoleums and the places of burning._

Simon imagined stakes like something out of the witch-burning days. "Sorry?"

_Those who die in battle are burned, their ashes used to make the marble arches that you see here. The blood and bone of demon slayers is itself a powerful protection against evil. Even in death, the Clave serves the cause. _

Simon was silent, thinking that over as they passed more tombs, square marble vaults with locked doors. It was obvious that there was something pretty messed-up about Shadowhunters – something fanatical and unthinking, totalitarian and really damn dubious. But he couldn't deny that what they did was incredible – hunting monsters to keep people safe, to keep _mundanes_ safe, who couldn't even see them. They gave their lives for it, and never received one word of thanks from people who didn't even know they existed. There was something bitter and sad about it – he wasn't totally sure Jace and the others had ever seen a movie before he played _Lord of the Rings_ for them, or ever done anything just to have fun, instead of training or hunting. They were his age, and every day they left their home knowing they might not come back, that they might die screaming. That was awful.

That they did it anyway was insane, and amazing.

_And even when they die, they keep fighting,_ he thought, looking at the arches with a new perspective. _They never give up. They'll save the world, and maybe die trying – and they'll keep fighting even then_. He wasn't sure it was healthy, but he found himself respecting anyone that dedicated to the forces of Good.

Jace thrust the torch ahead of him, revealing another staircase spiralling down into thicker darkness. "We're going to the second level, where the archives and the council rooms are," he told Simon as Simon stared warily into the shadows.

"Is Tartarus on the 13th level?" Simon muttered. Jace, the bastard, just grinned at him.

Like the previous stairs, these ended in a tunnel, which gradually widened into a square hall. Unlike the Great Hall at Hogwarts, this one had incredibly creepy pillars holding up the ceiling at each corner, and there was no getting away from it; Simon was 100% sure that these ones really _were_ made of bone. He wanted very badly to scoff at the cliché creepiness – the onyx torch holders, the thick smell of ashes, the huge silver sword hanging behind the long table of black stone – except that it was proving very successful at freaking him the fuck out. The sword, at least, was eerily beautiful, its hilt shaped to look like outspread angel wings, although he couldn't imagine anyone big enough to wield the thing.

But the cloaked, cowled Silent Brothers sitting at the table like Voldemort's Death Eaters, staring at him from within their hoods? Nope. Simon was ready to go home now.

_We have arrived_, Jeremiah stated, and Simon resisted the urge to say something snarky. Way to go stating the obvious!_ Simon, stand before the Council._

_I'd really rather not,_ Simon thought, but he didn't say it. He glanced at Jace, but from the confused, slightly wary expression on the Shadowhunter's face Simon realised that Jeremiah must have only spoken in _his_ head – Jace hadn't heard.

Great.

The floor of the hall was made up of alternating bronze and dark red squares, like a chessboard of gold and garnet. But in front of the table there was a larger square – black, and marked with a design of silver stars. Hoping he wasn't wrong and that stepping on the square meant death, Simon made himself walk onto the middle of it, his hand clenched tight on Simiel, and raised his chin. "All right," he said quietly. "I'm here."

Without a dramatic pause, the Brothers made a sound – a horrible, spine-chilling sound, something like a ghostly moan. As one they lifted their hands and flung back their hoods, baring the terrible scarred pits of their empty eye sockets, and Simon's knuckles went white on his seraph blade.

_When all other lights go out,_ he thought, frantically trying to distract himself from the sick nausea curling into a fist in his stomach. Jace wouldn't let these people hurt him.

It was probably not a good thing that that was what his mind leapt to when he was afraid.

_The Council greets you, Simon Fray,_ he heard, and this time it was not just one silent 'voice' – there were a dozen of them, all different, and all of them pressing against his mind like ravenous zombies beating against fragile glass, hungry for –

_That's it, no more zombie flicks for you,_ he told himself frantically. "_Stop_," he ordered – and Simiel's light flared at his side, like Eärendil against Shelob, bright and silvery as elven starlight against the dark and the pressure in his head. He heard Jace hiss with surprise behind him, felt the cacophony in his mind cut off as suddenly as a flipped switch, and Simon's body hummed, thrumming with the same electricity he'd sensed in Brother Jermiah's runes, golden and firey.

_If you do not want our help, there is no need for this,_ a voice said after a moment of tense silence. _You are the one who asked for our assistance, after all. _

"You want to know what's in my head as much as I do," Simon answered, and the sound of his own voice amazed him – firm and clear, completely at odds with the nervous almost-fear drying out his mouth. "If you want in, be careful about it. And warn me first."

One of the Brothers – a man sitting in the centre seat, so Simon assumed he was someone important – steepled his fingers beneath his chin. _It is an interesting puzzle, admittedly,_ he said, in a calm, neutral voice. Simiel's glow did not falter, steady and strong and strangely comforting. _But there is no need for the use of force. _

Simon wondered if they were referring to whatever it was that Simiel was doing. They were out of luck if they were, because Simon had no idea how to make the light stop.

_Especially if you do not resist, _the man added.

_They say that to rape victims too,_ Simon nearly snapped, but he bit his tongue. _This is for mom,_ he reminded himself. If there was the slightest chance that something in his head could lead them to rescuing Jocelyn, then he could bear it. He closed his eyes, and saw through his eyelids that Simiel's bright glow faded softly as he made himself relax, forcing himself to ignore his surroundings in favour of remembering his mom. Movie nights, alternating romantic comedies with comic book adaptions, and neither of them ever admitting that they secretly enjoyed the other's genre. Coming home from school to the smell of paint and scented candles. Going to the library when he was seven years old, because neither of them knew why the sky was blue and Simon wanted to know.

_Love you, Simon._

_Love you too, mom. _

Simon took a breath. "Okay. I'm ready."

The first brush of contact came instantly, a gentle touch like the sweep of a feather against his mind. _State your name for the Council. _

Did they mean out loud or in his head? He hesitated, then thought it. _Simon Fray._

More voices. _Who are you?_

_I'm Simon. My mom is Jocelyn Fray. I live at 807 Berkeley Place in Brooklyn. I'm seventeen years old. My father's name was –_

His mind exploded like a crystal ball hurled to the floor, a whirlwind of fragments and razor-sharp shards howling around and through him, searing across the back of his eyelids. His mother hurrying them both down a street at night between mounds of dirty snow. A lowering sky, gray as steel, the silhouettes of naked trees. A coffin being lowered into dirt. _Ashes to ashes._ His mom wrapped in her favourite patchwork blanket, worn and soft; tears streaked her face as Simon came into the room and she quickly closed a familiar box and shoved it under her pillow. The initials on the lid seemed writ in gold: _J. C. _

The memories – if that's what they were – came even faster, until it felt he was being slashed to pieces by fragments of flying glass. He stood at the top of a staircase, and Luke was there, long-haired with a beard, his green duffel at his feet as Jocelyn shook her head. "I thought that you were dead." Simon was in a park, surrounded by tiny green faeries like delicate dolls, glimmering like jewels and dragonflies; he reached for one and Jocelyn snatched him up with a cry. Winter again, black night and ice. A granite doorway, a hand under his chin, words and words and fire, he smelled smoke and heard his mother sobbing; a man with silvery blonde hair swung him in the air and Simon laughed with delight, clapping chubby hands –

And then, like a door slamming shut, it all stopped dead, with the words MAGNUS BANE leaping out at him like graffiti on the door.

Pain crashed through his right arm, and Simon cried out. Light burst, not in his head but outside it as Simiel lit up like a flare and Simon slashed with the blade without thinking, tearing through the darkness into consciousness. Something cold was pressed against his right side; when he opened his eyes he saw silver stars, shining brightly in Simiel's light.

He was lying on the floor, and for a moment all he could think was _how the hell did I get here?_

_The block inside your mind is stronger than we had anticipated,_ Brother Jeremiah said as Simon sat up carefully. His elbow was bleeding, and there was blood – too much – on his shirt. Jace's eyes were locked on him, every line of his body taut and almost vibrating with the force of holding himself back; Simon saw in a glance how badly the blonde wanted to go to him. But maybe it was one of those things that wasn't done. _It can be safely undone only by the one who put it there. For us to remove it would be to kill you. _

Simon climbed hastily to his feet, gingerly cradling his arm. "But I don't know who put it there," he said, trying to be reasonable. Trying to rein in the frenzied knot of adrenalin and panic and pain-shock twisting in his chest like a nest of ferrets.

_The answer to that is woven into the thread of your thoughts,_ Jeremiah told him. _In your waking dream you saw it written._

"Magnus Bane?" Was that even a name? It sounded vaguely familiar, as if he'd heard it somewhere before – but if it was tied to the block on his memory, he might never remember what it meant.

_Yes._

The Silent Brothers rose to their feet, eerily in sync, as clear a dismissal as Simon had ever seen. They nodded at Jace, the gesture some mixture of acknowledgement and respect, before they simply walked away and vanished into the forest of pillars. Only Jeremiah remained. He watched without eyes as Jace half bolted to Simon.

"Is your arm all right? Let me see," he demanded, grabbing Simon's wrist.

"Ouch! Careful with the merchandise!" But Simon allowed Jace to examine the injury, Simiel's light softening away to nothingness as Jace touched him.

"You bled on the Speaking Stars," Jace said. Simon was confused for a moment, before he saw the blood on the black marble square, a smear of it obscuring a couple of the shining stars. "I bet there's a law somewhere about that." He turned Simon's arm over, so gently it made Simon's breath catch in his throat – the sudden tenderness utterly disorientating after the madness of the last few minutes.

Jace bit his lip and whistled. Simon glanced down and felt the pit of his stomach drop out: his forearm was sleeved with blood as if with red silk. He didn't need to look to feel each throb of pain pulsing through the stiffening limb.

"Is this where you start tearing strips off your t-shirt for bandages?" he joked a little weakly.

"If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked." Jace pulled out his stele. "It would have been a lot less painful."

"I doubt it. Your ego probably would have exploded, killing me instantly." He braced himself, remembering the burn of the stele from Dorothea's apartment. But this time there was only a soft warmth as the glowing wand gently brushed over his arm.

"There," Jace said with satisfaction. Simon flexed his arm and couldn't stop himself from gaping; he was still bloody, but the pain was completely gone, the stiffness melted away and the wound closed. "And next time you're planning to injure yourself to get my attention, just remember that a little sweet talk works wonders."

"Only if you keep the pin in your ego grenade," Simon parried. It was nearly automatic by now. He stretched his fingers and felt himself grin like an idiot. _Christ on a T-Rex, that is _awesome. "Thanks."

Jace returned the stele to his pocket without answering, but Simon caught the gratified curve of his mouth as he turned away. "Brother Jeremiah," he said loftily, "you've been very quiet all this time. Surely you have some thoughts you'd like to share?"

_I am charged with leading you from the Silent City, and that is all._

"We could always show ourselves out," Jace said hopefully. "I'm sure I can remember the way – "

_The marvels of the Silent City are not for the eyes of the uninitiated,_ Jeremiah interjected. Simon wondered if that was supposed to be a joke. The initiated didn't _have_ eyes._ This way._

The journey to the surface seemed to be much quicker than the journey down, and when they finally emerged under the sunlight Simon willed his seraph blade back into its unextended form, dropping it into his pocket and stretching his arms – one still bloody – up above his head. "We're aliiiiiive," he sang, ridiculously relieved to feel fresh air again.

Jace shot him an amused look. "It's going to rain," he pointed out.

"I don't care. I'm going to dance in it." But he lowered his arms. "Are we taking the Death Coach back to the Institute?"

Jace glanced from Brother Jeremiah, standing as still as the angel statue (which Simon was keeping in the corner of his vision, thank you very much), to the carriage, looming like the European demon coach that foretold death like a banshee. Then he grinned, wicked and golden. "No way," he said. "I hate those things. Let's hail a cab."

)0(

"Turn left! _Left!_ I said to take Broadway, you brain-dead moron!"

The taxi driver jerked the wheel so hard in reply that Simon was thrown against Jace. Simon could only laugh, embarrassed by Jace's rudeness but also helplessly amused by it, and it took him a second to realise that he was half in Jace's lap.

The blonde's eyes gleamed, and Simon scurried backwards hastily.

"Why are we taking Broadway, anyway?" he asked, grasping his seat tightly.

"I'm starving," Jace said. "And God only knows what there is at home." He took his phone out of his pocket easily, as if he were sitting in a perfectly calm armchair somewhere and not being spun about like a Rotor amusement ride, and dialled. "Alec! Wake up!" he shouted, and Simon jumped. He could faintly hear an annoyed voice at the other end. "Meet us at Taki's. Breakfast. Yeah, you heard me. Breakfast. What? It's only a few blocks away."

Simon waved to get his attention. "Tell him to bring my bag," he mouthed. Jace frowned, but complied. "Get going," he added, and ended the call with a snap of his wrist.

He vanished the phone into one of his pockets as the cab pulled to a sudden stop. Jace handed over their fare while Simon leaned his hands against a brick wall and focussed on standing upright. He would, he thought vaguely, have to wash his arm – the healing rune had done nothing for the blood on it, and he didn't need people staring. The cab pulled away and Jace stretched like a cat. "Welcome to the greatest restaurant in New York," he declared proudly.

It was distinctly unimpressive. The sign bearing its name flickered with dying neon, and hung so far sideways Simon wasn't sure it was safe to walk under it. The building itself reminded him of the cake Jocelyn had baked for his sixth birthday – close to collapsing, as if it hadn't risen properly. Baking was not, they had discovered that day, in his mom's repertoire.

"What are you smiling at?" Jace asked, and Simon started.

"Nothing. Just remembering something." Taki's had no windows, he noticed belatedly. Wasn't that incredibly weird? "You know this place kind of looks like a prison, right?"

"Ah!" Jace pointed at him. "But in prison could you order a spaghetti _fra diavolo _that makes you want to kiss your fingers? I don't _think _so."

Simon felt his lips twitch, but sighed. "I'd rather be trying to find Magnus Bane than eating spaghetti."

"He's a warlock," Jace said. "Must be, to have placed that block in your mind. Which means he'll be known to someone. Hodge might even know him, if he's worked with the Institute before. We'll find him."

"Hey!" Alec looked as if he'd rolled out of bed and very nearly walked out the door in his pyjamas. His hair stuck out wildly, unbrushed. Like the jeans at Vatican last night, it made him look more human and less of a pretty cyborg. But Simon withdrew the thought when Alec proceeded to pretend Simon didn't exist. "Izzy's on her way," he said, looking only at Jace as he handed over Simon's backpack. "She's bringing the mundane."

Simon and Jace both frowned. "I'm right here," Simon pointed out, accepting his bag from Jace.

Alec's eyes didn't so much as glance at him. Simon wasn't sure whether he wanted to sigh or slap him. "The one from last night. The girl."

"_Clary?!_"

Jace and Simon stared at each other, startled – they'd both said it at the same moment – until Simon shook his head with frustration. "What's she doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

"She showed up first thing this morning, babbling something about coffee."

_Coffee? _

When Simon remembered, he slapped himself in the forehead. "I am _such _an idiot!"

"We already knew that," Alec commented.

"If you're going to talk to me you may as well look at me," Simon snapped. "You can't _half_ pretend I don't exist." _Coffee_. The safe-call. He'd never texted Clary either of his safe-call words. _Coffee_ had been the red-alert word, the one he should have sent if he was in trouble. Instead he'd never sent anything, something he'd never done before. "Damn it, she probably thinks you murdered me and left my body in a ditch."

"That's ridiculous," Jace scoffed. "If I was going to hide a body, I'd just leave it on Staten Island. Where would I find a ditch in the city?"

Simon barely heard him. _Clary_. After last night. God, he'd forgotten all about it. How was it possible that he'd gone all night, and all morning, without once thinking of the crushing blow he'd been dealt the night before? Or about the girl he loved?

"Are we going in or what?" Alec asked. "I'm starving."

"Me too," said Jace. "I could really go for some fried mouse tails."

"Some _what?_" Simon turned to stare, sure he'd misheard.

Jace just grinned.

Taki's interior was completely at odds with its outward persona. Despite the lack of windows it was brightly lit, illuminating snug wooden booths lined with comfortable cushions. The crockery on the counter was mismatched, with cups and jugs and plates that had clearly not begun life as a single set – but they seemed quite happy to be together now, like good friends that only find each other late in life. A blonde waitress behind the counter waved at Jace as they came in, her pink and white uniform spotless, and gestured for them to sit where they liked. Jace and Alec moved so unhesitatingly to a booth at the back that Simon knew this was a regular pit stop for them.

Simon followed, and wondered what Clary would think of the rest of the clientele – the stunning Indian girl with shimmering golden wings extended from her back, and the boy beside her with blue dreadlocks. Christ in high heels, what was he going to do about Clary? Would she go home, or insist on staying? Or go home but insist on Simon going back with her?

How was he supposed to face her?

Jace slid into the booth, and Alec took the seat next to him before Simon could. It was a sharp, sudden reminder that despite how close he'd felt to Jace in the Silent City, Alec was the one with the claim, and Simon sat down opposite the two of them a little shaken. His bloody arm was a dark stain on the homey golden wood of the table, another stark reminder. "Where's the bathroom?"

Alec pointed – no doubt glad to get rid of him – and Simon got up without another word, his heart pounding strangely. The toilets were very clean, lacking the grimy corners and dubious stains Simon had seen in even the best restaurants, on those rare occasions that Luke splurged and took them somewhere nice.

It was hard to believe that the same man who'd taken Simon and his mom to Jean Georges for Jocelyn's thirty-fifth birthday had been so quick to abandon Simon once this started.

Simon scrubbed the blood from his arm and tried not to think about it, about Luke telling Valentine's men that Jocelyn was nothing to him. _We have a lead now_, he told himself. _We'll find Magnus Bane, we'll get the block removed..._

And if there was nothing in his head to lead them to Valentine?

_There has to be. _

When he got back to the table, Isabelle and Clary had appeared. Simon felt his gut and throat go tight, and he felt wobbly for a moment, as if his legs had turned to rubber. He did not want to sit down next to her. He didn't want her to see him, didn't want to talk to her; he thought of _Crush _and wanted to gag with humiliation. But the Shadowhunters were all ignoring her, excluding her from their conversation, and her spine was so straight as she read – or pretended to read – the menu. Despite everything it made Simon hate the Nephilim a little bit – maybe more than a little.

Defiantly, he walked over and sat down beside her, pretending that his heart wasn't racing. "Hey."

She glanced up at him, startled. The slightly nervous, awkward tilt of her smile made his stomach twist. "Hi."

Desperately he cast about for something to say. "Anything good?" he asked lamely, nodding at the menu.

"I don't know yet." She peered at it. "Who eats whole raw fish?"

"Selkies," Jace said coldly. Silence fell like a stone; the Shadowhunters' conversation stopped dead. "The occasional nixie. Kelpies." He tilted his head. Simon thought of Castiel, but Cas' gesture was generally bewildered and always adorable; Jace was cold, his eyes hardened to gold coins. He looked as though he were considering a target, as if he were staring at a practise dummy he meant to disembowel, and not a real, living person. "Do you know what a kelpie is?" he asked, coolly curious.

"Jace," Isabelle said softly, but Jace didn't blink.

"No," Clary said finally. "I don't."

Jace smiled, and Simon felt a chill run down his spine. "It's a kind of faerie creature," he said softly. "It looks like a beautiful horse, and it waits down by the water. A lake, usually. It waits for little girls, because they tend to like horses, don't they?"

Simon did not see this story ending well. He didn't like the velvety tone of Jace's voice; it sounded like a knife coming out of a sheath. But like Clary, he was hypnotised, frozen like a mouse before a snake.

Jace looked away from Clary, dropping his gaze as he toyed with a fork. "And when the girl climb onto the back of the pretty horsie, she finds that she can't get off again. That's the power of a kelpie, you see; to hold you to its back so you can't move. So that you can't free yourself when it jumps into the water, or swim away. You can only watch the surface get further and further away from you as the kelpie drags you deeper, until you drown."

There was dead silence. Jace looked up at Clary, and smiled again. "Do you like horses?"

Simon stared, stunned past words. Even Alec and Isabelle looked shocked.

"No, actually," Clary said. She stared at Jace without flinching, her jaw tight and her eyes sparking. "I don't. And I don't like unicorns, either, or princesses, or pathetic blonde _twinks_ who – "

"Know what you're having?" a bright voice interrupted. It was the waitress from behind the counter, and up close her smile was full of sharp little teeth, like needles.

"_Yes_," Isabelle said firmly, before anyone else could deny her. "I will have one of your fabulous apricot-plum smoothies with extra honey." She glared around the table, daring any of them to misbehave. "What do the rest of you want?"

"Blondie's head on a stick," Clary muttered under her breath, and Simon choked.

"The usual," Jace said carelessly. He didn't respond to the girl's smile.

"Me too," Alec added. There was no smile for him.

Clary lowered her menu. "Could I try the coconut pancakes, please? With a coffee?"

"Sure thing," the girl said, writing it all down. She turned to Simon, and he saw that her eyes were solid blue – no pupils or whites at all. "And what about you, sweet cheeks?"

Everyone stared at her. _Simon _stared at her. "Uh..." Jace looked _furious_; Simon hastily looked back down at his menu, which he'd barely glanced at. Which meant that he only now saw that Taki's did indeed offer raw fish, as well as various kinds of raw meat and animal blood, and something called a toasted bat sandwich. But not, apparently, anything normal. "Um..." Where had Clary found the pancakes?

The blue-eyed girl grinned. "Human food's on the back, cutie."

Between Clary next to him and Jace and Alec on the other side of the table, Simon felt like begging her to stop with the pet names. "Thanks," he said instead, wishing the earth would swallow him up. "Um, could I have some cinnamon waffles, please?"

"Whatever you want," she purred. "Anything to drink?"

"Coffee, please," Simon said hastily.

"_Well_," Isabelle said lightly when the girl was gone. "I haven't seen Kaelie that friendly since she was stepping out with _you_, Jace."

Jace shot her a dirty look.

_Who says 'stepping out'?_ Simon wondered. He glanced sideways at Clary and tipped his head meaningfully. _You okay?_

She huffed through her nose and rolled her eyes. _It would take more than some Buffy-wannabe to freak me out._

Simon couldn't get it out of his head, though. It had been so unexpected – where the hell had it come from, that sociopath smile? He refused to meet Jace's eyes when the blonde tried to gain his attention; he was furious with him, for all but _threatening _Clary. That was – he couldn't even –

If Simon was honest with himself, though – and he didn't like it, felt horrible admitting it even in the privacy of his own head – he felt hurt, and betrayed, and _confused_. _That's not the Jace I know_.

_And how long have you known him for? _His mental Clary asked reasonably. _A few days. You DON'T know him. You don't know him at all._

"So how did it go at the Bone City?" Isabelle asked, when it became apparent no one else was going to speak. "Did you find out what's in Simon's head?"

"We got a name," Jace said. He sounded perfectly normal now. _How do you know? You don't have enough data to establish his 'normal'. _"Magnus – "

"Shut _up_," Alec hissed, smacking Jace with the side of his hand.

Jace rubbed his arm aggrievedly. "Jesus, what's your problem?"

"This place is full of Downworlders. You know that. I think you should try to keep the details of our investigation secret."

"_Investigation?_" Isabelle laughed. "Now we're detectives? Maybe we should all have code names."

"Don't say it," Simon warned Clary under his breath. She grinned at him.

"Good idea," said Jace. "I shall be Baron Hotschaft Von Hugenstein."

Alec choked on his drink; Clary raised her eyebrows. "Will you be wanting Pussy Galore as a side-kick?"

Simon laughed.

Jace scowled. "Let me out for a second," he told Alec, who obeyed without protest. Simon tried not to watch Jace go over to Kaelie by the bar, but something in him twisted at the bright, blinding smile he gave her.

He went to put his arm around her, but Kaelie pushed him away with a laugh and vanished into the kitchen.

"He really shouldn't bother the waitstaff," Isabelle said with a sigh.

Alec was watching Jace too, and damn it, what was Jace doing? Flirting with an ex right in front of his boyfriend? Simon hoped Jace was he just trying to keep up appearances, but really, it was starting to add up, all the times Jace had treated Alec callously, dismissed him. Even Simiel – _especially _Simiel – had been a knife through Alec's heart. Almost literally.

_This is not someone you should be falling for,_ Simon told himself, feeling sick.

"You don't think he still likes her?" Alec asked.

"She's a Downworlder," Isabelle said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

But Simon was on edge, and more than happy to pick a fight. "So?"

Isabelle raised an eyebrow at him. "So what?"

"This whole Downworlder thing," Simon said. "You don't hunt them, you have these crazy important alliances with them – which means your law sees them as people, because that's basic contract law right there, if they think you're sub-human you can't enter into contract with anyone. But they're not good enough to date?"

Alec looked shocked. "You don't _date_ Downworlders."

"You sleep with them," Isabelle added. "But you don't bring them home to meet the parents."

"Why not?" Simon demanded. "Clearly they're people, so what's the big problem?"

"They're just..." Alec looked uncertain.

"They're different from people," Isabelle said lamely.

"Oh, like mundanes then," Simon said sarcastically.

Jace slid in next to Alec. "What about mundanes?"

"No," Isabelle said thoughtfully. "You could turn a mundane into a Shadowhunter. I mean, we came from mundanes. But you could never turn a Downworlder into one of the Clave. They can't withstand the runes."

Simon resisted the urge to throw up his hands. "So the fuck _what?_"

Their food arrived before anyone could reply, Kaelie skilfully balancing everyone's plates on her arms. Possibly she was using some kind of magic, because Simon couldn't see how else she kept from dropping them all as she deftly placed them on the table. "I'll be right back with your coffee," she told Clary and Simon, and vanished again.

"I told you it was the greatest restaurant in Manhattan," Jace said, picking up fries with his fingers. Simon ignored him – but it was true that his waffles looked and smelled incredible, and tasted even better when he took a bite. Only when the cinnamon burst over his tongue did he realise that he was starving.

Kaelie returned with a small tray, bearing coffee and a small jug of syrup. "There you go, guys," she said, setting them down. "Can I get you anything else?" She was looking at Simon as she said this, and he made himself smile, feeling Jace's eyes on him.

"Actually – "

"Does the name Magnus Bane mean anything to you, Kaelie?" Jace interrupted, and she turned her solid blue eyes to him instead.

"Jace!" Alec hissed. "We said we'd keep it quiet!"

"No, _you _said that. I never agreed to it."

But Kaelie was nodding. "Oh, sure! He's a warlock over in Brooklyn – he throws these absolutely _insane_ parties. There was this one time, about two years ago – "

"What are you doing?" Clary asked as Simon started tearing through his bag, his heart pressing itself up against his ribcage. "Simon?"

"I – last night, somebody gave me – " _Parties. _The invite. Christ, he was so stupid – how had he forgotten? No wonder the name had seemed so familiar! He felt the parchment-like card against his fingertips and snatched it, slammed it down triumphantly on the table. "There!"

Everyone peered at it. Kaelie grinned widely. "You're going too?" she asked, plucking her own invite from the pocket of her apron to show him. "I guess I'll see you there, handsome."

Simon was too ecstatic to do anything but grin back at her. "Only if I don't see you first."

She laughed and left them to attend to the couple that had just walked in.

"What is it?" Clary asked. Jace picked it up with his fingertips, handling it as if it were an undeveloped photograph – carefully, holding just the edges.

"It's a party invitation," he said, apparently stunned enough to forget that Clary was hiding ichor beneath her freckles. "Where the hell did you get this?"

"This – person at Vatican. He – she – um, they said they wanted us to play at the party." Jace passed the little card around, and each of the Shadowhunters inspected it.

"You mean your band?" Alec asked. Isabelle was reading the fine print on the invitation.

"Is that safe?" Clary asked, glancing at Simon. "For the others, I mean? Are you going to tell them about all this?"

"They said there'd be some magic thing to make the guys think it was a dream. So – no, I am not planning on telling them anything."

"Wait, you're actually going to do it?" Alec asked.

"I didn't really get a chance to say no," Simon said. "Which means they're expecting me, so – unless you tell me it's dangerous, yeah, I thought we would." He paused. "Although I haven't asked the others yet."

Isabelle handed the invite to Clary. Her eyebrows went up. "It's sparkly," she commented.

"That's an invitation from the High Warlock of Brooklyn," Alec said coolly.

"So? It still sparkles like a Cullen." She gave the card back to Simon. He took a closer look at it: it did indeed claim that this Magnus person was the High Warlock. Huh. Was that good or bad?

"What's a Cullen?" Isabelle asked curiously.

"A very deadly kind of vampire," Simon told her. "It kills you with the power of its angst."

Clary laughed, and Simon grinned at her.

Isabelle smiled around the straw of her smoothie. "I guess we're going to a party then."

* * *

NOTES

The Hades quote is from the Disney animated Hercules movie. Which is a lot cleverer than I was able to pick up on at eight years old.

As mentioned in the previous chapter, Eärendil is the name of the light Galadriel gives Frodo (technically, it's the name of the star whose light is in the bottle she gives him). Shelob is the GIANT ASS EVIL SPIDER THING that tries to eat Frodo and Sam in Return of the King.

A note on Simon's memories: when the Silent Brothers attempt to unlock Simon's memories, he catches glimpses of things Clary doesn't and can't have seen in canon, because of when she was born. To allow for the ages of the characters AND accomodate the Accords happening when they do - all the teenage characters were born earlier in this fic than they were in canon. Simon was born BEFORE Jocelyn fled Idris; he was a baby, and he has one or two fragments of memory from that time. And that's all I'll say about that.


	14. Chapter 14

It was just barely 09:30 by the time Simon finished his waffles, and since Magnus' party was tomorrow night, that gave them all a ton of time to kill.

"You should come back to the Institute with us," Jace said outside Taki's.

Simon looked at him coldly, holding Jace's serial-killer smile in his mind and refusing to forgive him for it. "I have stuff to do. I'll meet you at the party tomorrow, how's that?"

Jace looked like he wanted to protest, but he bit it down. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth.

Simon didn't let himself look back as he and Clary left for the subway.

"I'm so sorry I never texted," he apologised as they found seats.

Clary shook her head, dismissing it. "Just tell me what happened," she ordered.

It took the whole journey to describe the Silent Brothers and their deep, dark necropolis – not to mention what had happened down there. Clary listened intently without interrupting, and clearly Simon wasn't explaining things well enough because she didn't look nearly as freaked out as the whole experience deserved.

"Those things you saw – what do you think they meant?" she asked when he was done. They were pulling into their stop, and both of them got up and moved to the doors.

"When the Brothers were in my head? I don't know. Stuff someone didn't want me to remember, I guess." Simon was wondering about it too. None of it seemed especially earth-shattering. He'd seen faeries in his memory, which meant that they were something someone was trying to hide from him – but they'd already known or guessed that someone had locked his Sight away. As for the rest... Snow, a blonde guy, and a grave.

Well, okay. The grave might be something dodgy.

"Why do you think Magnus did it? I mean – is he the one who wanted to hide your memories? Or did someone make him do it?"

Simon wondered how you made a warlock do anything he didn't want to do. "I've no idea," he said honestly.

Clary accepted that. "But it's a good thing, right?" she pointed out. "No one hides stuff that doesn't matter. If someone blocked your memories, it means you know something important – something someone didn't want anyone to know."

Simon stared at her. "You're _brilliant_, you know that?" He hadn't thought of that before, but it was so _obvious_. He felt a surge of renewed hope: maybe he really _did_ have the secret to rescuing his mom inside his head. And if that was true – they would see Magnus, they would get him to remove the block, Simon would _remember_ – and they would find his mom.

Clary smirked and tossed her hair dramatically. "It's true, I'm awesome."

Without discussing it they'd made their way to Eric's house, and Simon was already sketching out a possible set plan in his head. And if he was honest – a very big part of him was looking forward to this.

)0(

"What do you mean, _we have a gig_?"

Oh, revenge was sweet. Simon grinned widely. "I mean," he said, trying not to sound too gleeful, "_we have a gig_. Tomorrow night in Brooklyn."

Eric tried to look unimpressed, but after only a second or two he broke into a grin. "All right, fine. But _you_ are explaining it to Matt and Kirk."

Swinging her legs on a stool, Clary stuck her hand in the air. "Can I do it?" she asked, and both boys laughed.

)0(

Simon sat in a corner with his notebook while the guys and Clary discussed songs. No one had brought up _Crush_, or Simon's telling disappearance after their performance the night before, and Simon wondered if Matt and Kirk had taken the news that they were playing tomorrow with such grace because they didn't want to upset him.

But his mind was too full to think much about the ache in his chest each time he glanced over and saw Clary debating the pros and cons of _Dark to Dark _with Kirk, the fierce brightness as she argued her points. He'd been so proud of her at Taki's – and so mad at Jace.

He went from tapping his pen against the page to scribbling with no graduation between the two; one moment one, the next, the other. The words came easily, the way they sometimes did; the kind of words that he would never say except on stage, with a mike in hand and Lint behind him. It was like the last time he'd seen Jocelyn, when he'd swallowed his bitterness down (and Christ, was he glad now that he had – how much worse would it have been if his last words to his mom had been hateful and horrible?), but now instead of keeping it in he bled it all over the page. Bitter, and mocking, and sarcastic; playful but with a sharpness underneath. He heard the music in his head as if it had been waiting for him, the perfect accompaniment for his pulse, and for the way his stomach clenched with an angry thrill at his own daring.

It felt like it had been only moments, but when he looked up almost two and a half hours had gone by. He'd covered pages with notes and scribbles and viciously crossed-out lyrics, but as he stared at it, reading it back to himself, his grin grew wider and wider.

Without letting himself hesitate, he got up, crossed to the table, and tossed his notebook down in the middle of their conversation.

"I want to perform that tomorrow," he announced.

Kirk sighed. "I'll get the coffee," he said mournfully.

)0(

There wasn't much need to practise anything else in their repertoire – they knew most of it inside out and backwards – but music wasn't that kind of balancing act. Resting secure in the knowledge that they knew all their other songs did not compensate for turning a brand _new_ song into something fit for audiences in a little over 24 hours.

Because of course, Simon's song wasn't perfect. It was _good_ – maybe better than anything else he'd ever written in such a short time frame. But there were still tweaks to be tweaked and beats to be excised or inserted, input to be listened to and arguments to be had and, ultimately, four people had to memorise the words and music in a very short time.

It was _awesome_. It was intense and fun and normal, just as Simon was beginning to give up on ever getting close to normalcy again. They shouted at each other and Kirk made paper airplanes out of their notes and they played a hundred and two slightly different variations and Clary ordered pizza because "When you're like this you guys will starve to death before you remember a little thing like food."

"Food is for the weak!" Simon cried.

"But pizza is for the gods," Kirk pointed out.

"True," he conceded.

Eric lifted his drum sticks above his head. "And then Clary said; Let there be pizza!"

And there was pizza. And it was good.

)0(

When they took a break for video games and more junk food (and sliced raw pepper, because Simon had cravings and he was missing his mom's healthy snacks more than he ever thought he would), Clary came and sat next to him.

For a minute or two neither of them said anything, just watched Eric and Kirk battle it out on Halo.

"It's not about us, is it?" Clary asked finally.

"Your left, your left! _YOUR OTHER LEFT!_" Eric shouted.

"What isn't?" Simon asked.

She turned to look at him. "The song."

"What – no! Oh, God, no. I swear, it's not." That she would think so had honestly not occurred to him. "I promise. No – no sort-of-breakup songs in our future. I wouldn't do that to you."

She relaxed. "Good. I was worried that you were more upset than you seemed."

"I'm – " Simon paused, choosing his words carefully. "I am upset. I'm sad. But if I'm being completely honest – not as much as I thought I'd be. There's so much going on...I don't have much time to think about it." He looked at her – really looked at her, the way her hair fell in a messy ponytail down her back. This was the girl who'd broken into Luke's house because she was afraid for Simon. This was the girl who, just that morning, had braved demon hunters to come and make sure he was okay. He didn't think he could ever not love her.

"But it's not anybody's fault," he said quietly. "And I'd rather keep what we have than mess it all up crying white boy tears."

Clary nodded slowly. "Me too," she admitted. "Although you don't have to worry about white boy tears. If you were ever _that_ stupid, I'd just slap you until you came back to your senses."

He laughed. "That's such a relief!"

She grinned like the Cheshire cat and tucked her feet under her. "Get me more popcorn," she ordered imperiously. "I have decided to allow you to be my love slave. Without the love."

Simon smothered a grin and stood up. "At once, my lady," he said formally. When he took the popcorn bowl, he saw Eric and Kirk exchange a smile, and wondered how much of the conversation they'd overheard.

Probably nothing. Halo could get _really _loud.

)0(

Clary and Kirk went home eventually, but the other three stayed up late into the night. They couldn't play music – Eric's parents were asleep upstairs – but they could talk about it, discussing the song and the reception they'd gotten at Pandemonium and Vatican, their hopes for the future. Fuelled by late-night mania and too much sugar, they competed to come up with the craziest predictions.

"I want to be playing a concert on the moon by 2030."

"The moon? We'll play to _Martians_, in 20_18_."

"On instruments made of cheese."

"Does that mean we'll have to translate our songs into Martian-ese?"

"I tell you we'll be playing music on _cheese_, and you're worried about what language the songs are in?"

Eric shrugged. "I don't care. I just want to be filthy rich and have a Martian harem. Which reminds me!"

He scrambled upright and vanished up the stairs out of the basement. Simon raised his eyebrows at Matt. "Do I want to know what Martian harems remind him of?"

Matt thought about it. "Leia in _Return of the Jedi_?"

Eric returned triumphantly bearing a brown envelope. "This is for you," he told Simon, throwing himself back down on the floor amidst the sleeping bags. "From the manager at Vatican."

Bemused, Simon opened it – and stared at the flash of green. "What the hell?"

Eric's grin stretched from ear to ear. "They paid us! Did I not mention that?"

"No, you forgot that part." Simon couldn't believe his eyes. There was $50 in here – and presumably they'd each gotten as much. $200, for a brand new band with no following? He'd heard stories of three person bands getting paid $75 – all together, not separately. "This is awesome! Did he say why he paid so much?"

"_She_ said they like to support newbies. Especially ones as good as us." Eric preened, as if he was single-handedly responsible for the awesomeness that was Millennium Lint. Under the circumstances Simon was inclined to allow him his delusion. "I'm thinking we can expect future bookings."

"Let me get my datebook, we'll have to make sure we're free," Matt deadpanned, and they all grinned at each other.

"This is _awesome_," Simon said again, because it bore repeating. "Look at us – on our way to fame and fortune! Next stop, the top!"

)0(

They ran the song through a couple more times the next morning, once Eric's parents left for work and Kirk was coaxed out of bed by the promise of Starbucks coffee. Which he had to grab and pay for himself, because Simon and the others were bastards like that. But by midday they were satisfied that it was as good as it was going to get.

"And you really want to do this?" Eric questioned when they broke for lunch. "Play a brand-new song at some private gig?"

"Yes," Simon said firmly. "I really, really do."

'_So who _is_ the song for?' Clary had asked. 'If it's not about us.'_

'_That would be telling.'_

Matt shrugged. "It's short, it's simple, the lyrics aren't that hard to remember...I think we'll be okay."

Clary came to play dress-up with them at nine, and this time Simon didn't let himself be embarrassed. "Turn me into a knockout," he ordered.

She considered him. "Will you consider wearing contacts?"

"No."

She grinned. "That's the spirit, show the world that four eyes is sexy. Now, put on this, this, and this – not that! – and then come back for make-up."

_Make-up?_

Simon raised his eyebrows – and then saw the shirt she'd found for him. "This is not a shirt I ever meant to wear," he said weakly.

"It was in your bag, that makes it fair game. Go put it on." She waved her hand dismissively, and then ran across to Kirk. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, you can't wear that! No no no!"

And that was how Simon came out to Clary. Well. At least that had been...easy.

Clary shooed the others away from him when he was dressed. "Not until he's done!" she insisted. Which made him sound more like a cake than a lead singer, but since he wanted a minute or two alone with her he didn't protest.

"So, um. You don't mind?" he asked tentatively as she poked the top of her tongue between her teeth, carefully wielding the little eye-shadow pencil.

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Nope. Why would I care? None of my business who you like. Although," she said pointedly, smudging the eyeliner with her fingertip, "I think I understand the song now."

His cheeks burned. This time he did open his mouth to protest – and shut it again. "Um."

In an act of mercy, she didn't say anything else. They sat in silence as she did her thing, and Simon wondered if he was supposed to feel any different. He decided that he didn't.

Not until Clary let him see his reflection, anyway.

He stared, and then leaned in closer. "That is me, right? You haven't gotten Regina's magic mirror to show me some crazy fantasy?"

Clary beamed. "I'll go get dressed. Don't turn into a daffodil while I'm gone."

"Narcissus!" he called after her, but she only waved at him.

He turned back to the mirror.

The black converse he was wearing had neon-pink and highlighter-yellow stars over his ankles; they and the jeans both belonged to Eric, and Matt had handed over the leather jacket Simon had worn at Vatican. Kirk had produced glow-stick bracelets for all of them, and Simon had a matching necklace wrapped around his throat. Clary's make-up had turned his eyes smokey and hot, even through his glasses, but the star of the outfit was definitely the shirt.

White, on black. Innocuous. _Most likely to steal your boyfriend. _

He didn't even remember packing it; he must have picked up two shirts at once, and this one snuck into the bag. Sebastian had bought the shirt for him as a joke, on the second day of the con where they'd met, but Simon had never worn it until today. It seemed too confrontational, too in-your-face, and if he'd never tried to hide the fact that he liked guys, well – he didn't see how it was anybody else's business, either.

Tonight, though. Tonight he felt fucking confrontational. He grinned at the mirror, baring his teeth, and decided he liked it.

)0(

"So you're gay?" Matt asked, glancing at his shirt curiously.

"Bi," Simon corrected, and waited.

After a pause, Eric asked "So, do these jeans make my ass look hot?" He posed, hands on his hips and grinning.

"It would take more than jeans to make that happen," Simon snarked, and grinned back as they laughed.

"You tell him, Simon," Kirk called.

Eric pouted, and then turned to Clary. "What do you think?"

She rolled her eyes and smacked the back of his head. "Get your drums in the van, idiot," she said fondly.

And that was that. At this rate, he was going to be insulted with how little everyone cared, Simon thought, amused.

Clary's arms were decked with glowing bracelets almost up to her shoulders when she joined them in the van. There had been no debate over whether or not she would come; Simon would have liked to see anyone try to stop her. Her jeans had deliberate holes at the knees and tucked into the same buckled boots she'd worn at Vatican; her hair fell down her back like liquid fire. Simon tried to ignore the way the neck of her shirt swept low over her collarbone, baring the top of both her shoulders in a way that made her look simultaneously fragile and sexy.

The black tribal-esque design on her shirt made him think of the Shadowhunters' runes, and he wondered if she'd chosen it for that reason.

"Where is it we're going again?" Eric asked, and Simon read out the address on the invite for Kirk to plug into the app on his phone.

"Got it," he said triumphantly, and started reciting directions like a magic spell.

They trudged along in the traffic, giving Simon plenty of time to grow nervous. He toyed with Simiel in his pocket. Would the guys really be okay at a warlock's party? The person who'd given him the invite had promised they'd be fine – but what value was that? It wasn't exactly a contract. But, he reminded himself, the Shadowhunters hadn't said a word about it being dangerous. They hadn't expressed the slightest concern when he'd said Lint was going – maybe getting mundane musicians wasn't so uncommon. Maybe turning memories into dreams was common practise for the Shadow World – how else did they deal with the occasional mundane who managed to spot them?

_They try and turn them into Shadowhunters. What else?_ That's what they wanted to do with him – or at least, Jace had been very surprised to hear that Simon had no intention of joining their ranks.

_Aaaand, let's not think about Jace._

Eric put the radio on, and Clary asked which tracks they would use if Lint made a demo disc. Simon grabbed at the topic gratefully, and soon they were all discussing it – playfully, but with a thread of excitement and hope that someday it might be something they really had to think about. That someday some agent might ask for their demo, and they could hand one over...

The conversation carried through the journey, sliding easily from song tracks to ridiculous lyrics to imaginary album covers. Simon was laughing and relaxed when Eric finally announced that they'd arrived, and nerves slammed into him like a piano dropped from a window.

_Here goes nothing. _

They emerged from the van onto a narrow street, surrounded by old warehouses, most of which had been converted into apartments and lofts; Simon could see signs of habitation in curtained windows and numbered trash cans. "Which one is it?" he asked.

Matt consulted his phone, then pointed at a red brick building. "That one."

"Alright. I'll go see where they want us to set up." Simon said, trying to keep his voice casual. What kind of people went to a warlock's party, anyway? And where were Jace and the others?

"See if someone'll come out and help!" Kirk called after him. "Eric's drums are almost as heavy as his fat ass!"

"Hey!"

Simon grinned, mounting the steps up to the door. He had to admit, the place didn't look very imposing; the entryway smelled like a gutter, and only one of the apartment buzzers had a name beside it. But since that name was BANE, Simon figured that that was the one he wanted, and pressed it.

He was beginning to wonder if he should press it again when the door flew open.

"Yes?"

"I – um, Magnus Bane?" Simon guessed, a little stunned.

A flicker of something that might have been recognition flickered through cat-slitted eyes and was gone. "I am he." Magnus lounged against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised questioningly. A smirk flirted with his mouth as he looked Simon up and down. "I like your shirt," he added.

"I like your everything," Simon blurted. Magnus looked only a couple of years older than Simon, but he was _gorgeous_, all Asian-gold skin and lithe slimness, and the hand he ran through the soft black spikes of his hair flashed with jewelled rings. Silver buckles covered his black shirt, and his jeans hugged long, lean legs. His cat-eyes were ringed with dark charcoal glitter, and the lips that quirked at the sight of Simon's daze were painted a sapphire blue.

Magnus laughed. "Why thank you," he grinned. "I hope you're here for my party, now. I do so love to be surrounded by people with good taste."

Simon pulled himself together, hoping he wasn't blushing. "I'm actually – I'm Simon, with the band?" He withdrew his invite and held it out. "Somebody told us to come play tonight."

Magnus' gold eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah! Yes, I know who you are." He leaned out of the doorway and peered from side to side. "But where are the rest of you?"

Simon pointed over his shoulder. "We've got a van – is there anybody who could help us shift our instruments?"

"But of course! Just give me a moment." Before Simon could say a word Magnus vanished back inside, leaving the door open. He returned quickly, accompanied by a handful of pale men and women who looked far too slender to be much help. But Simon was willing to wait and see rather than protest.

He stopped Magnus for a second. "Sorry," he apologised to the raised eyebrows. "It's just – my friends are – " He hesitated. He still didn't like the word _mundane_, didn't like the implication of _boring_ and _dull_ and _useless_. But would calling them 'normal' be offensive, if it implied Magnus and his friends were _ab_normal? " – not part of the Shadow World. That's not going to be an issue, is it?"

"Not in the slightest," Magnus assured him. "We often have mundane entertainers – there are only so many times you can listen to banshee bands before you have to stab forks in your ears. They wail," he explained, then waved a dismissive wave in the face of Simon's confusion. "Suffice to say – I'll take care of it. No harm will come to your bandmates, I promise."

Relieved, Simon led the way down the street to the van. The guys already had the back doors open, and Clary was directing everyone, pointing and commanding. The helpers Magnus had brought looked amused to be ordered about by a tiny redhead, but they shifted the drum set easily, as if it were made of cardboard, carefully lifting it out onto the street piece by piece.

"Guys, this is Magnus," Simon said. Magnus waved regally, like a royal to his subjects. Simon grinned. "And this is Eric, Matt, and Kirk. And Clary, who doesn't play with us but keeps us whipped into shape."

"Charmed," Magnus said, clearly amused. "If you'd all come this way, we'll get you set up."

Simon noticed that the warlock unobtrusively touched the guys as they passed him – a fingertip to a shoulder, an arm – and he caught a flicker of something unreadable across his friends' faces each time, there and gone almost too fast to see. But Clary must have spotted it too: she neatly side-stepped when Magnus reached for her.

"I'd like to remember," she said calmly. "If that's alright."

Magnus glanced at Simon, and Simon nodded. "It's fine. She knows all this stuff."

"As you like," Magnus said breezily. "Now come. I daren't leave the party for too long. God only knows what they'll all get up to without supervision. Like kindergartners, you know."

Followed by the helpers bearing Lint's instruments, Magnus led them all up a flight of much-abused stairs to his apartment. Whatever he had done to Eric and the others, they didn't seem at all concerned by the glowing green stuff on the banister – or the strangeness of the crowd filling the huge loft Magnus gestured them into.

Simon had to pause for a split second, just to drink it all in. There was almost no furniture, except for a few improvised pieces, like the bar that was made up of doors laid flat across metal garbage cans. A woman with surprisingly beautiful violet skin manned it with near superhuman speed, pouring neon coloured drinks with four arms. Some of her customers were almost as strange; a boy with shark-like teeth and wet hair was talking to a girl whose bare feet were webbed, both of them sharing a plate of raw fish. Simon saw crystal champagne flutes being filled with a red liquid too thick to be wine, and handed off to a group of women as pale as the ones who were carrying Lint's instruments over to the makeshift stage at one end of the room.

But at least the guys didn't seem to be freaking out.

Clary stepped closer to him, wide-eyed. "Is this all real?" she whispered.

"Yep," Simon whispered back.

She was staring at the red drinks Simon had noticed a minute ago. "Are they drinking – "

"How do you want these?" One of the helpers – _vampires _– asked Simon, appearing out of thin air. Simon smothered a yelp.

"U-um, let me – " Simon followed them over to the stage. "Eric, man, this okay?"

Eric was inspecting his drum set critically. "Could you move it a little more that way?" he asked, pointing.

Wordlessly, they did so, and Eric gave them a thumb's up. "That's great! Thanks."

"I think we're good," Simon confirmed, and his stomach gave a funny flip as the vampires exchanged grins. Those were _definitely _fangs, oh Jesus Christ on a pogo stick.

Magnus came over to check on them a few minutes later. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Just wondering where the power outlets are?" Simon asked, stashing his backpack behind Eric's drums. Eric had promised to keep an eye on it. "We need to plug most of these in." But they'd yet to spot any plugs – although granted, this place was so packed they could barely see the _walls_, never mind the tiny squares of an outlet.

Magnus directed them to a handful, even producing some extension cords that came in handy. Quickly, Lint had no more excuses, but the Shadowhunters still hadn't arrived and Simon was beginning to get a little worried. Clary sat on the edge of the stage, swinging her legs and sipping a drink that shone like emeralds; she looked perfectly content to stay there, and Simon was glad. He felt better if he could see her. Who knew what could happen if she got lost in this crowd?

But where the hell was Jace? At this rate Simon would have to confront Magnus about his memories on his own.

_Fine,_ Simon thought firmly, angrily. _I can do this on my own if I have to. I'll show him mundanes can get the job done just as well._

Eric gave the all-clear signal, and Simon touched two fingers to his temple in recognition. His stomach churned with nerves as he took the mike in hand – but there was an undeniable excitement in it too, and he found himself grinning out at the motley crowd. "Alright guys, you ready for some music?"

A chorus of affirmation came back at him – some eager, some amused, some _get-on-with-it-already_.

"Okay then. We're Millennium Lint, and you'd better enjoy us!"

They slammed into the first song, and they were off.

)0(

Four songs later, Simon was starting to get nervous. The Shadowhunters still hadn't shown up, and there was a great deal of interest in the redheaded girl sitting on the edge of the stage. Simon couldn't help remembering that Magnus had promised safety for his _bandmates_, not his _friends_; how safe was Clary from the girl with flowers and fireflies in her hair, who kept coming up to talk to her? What if it was the spell-thing Magnus had done that kept the guys safe? Clary had refused it.

So had Simon, for that matter.

When they wrapped up the fifth song, Simon was about to call a break so he could call Jace, when he spotted the damn blonde in the crowd. He and the other two Shadowhunters seemed oblivious of the dirty looks the rest of the partygoers were giving them, standing tall and straight, and Simon's first reaction was an incredible relief. Jace would know how to deal with Magnus. He'd know how to protect Clary, even if Simon had to bully him into it. He'd –

Furious with himself, Simon turned away from the crowd and caught Eric's eyes. "Now," he ordered.

Eric's eyebrows rose. "Now?" he echoed. "But I thought you wanted to keep it till the end?"

Simon shook his head. "Changed my mind."

"You're the boss." With a shrug, Eric passed the message on to the other two while Simon returned his attention to the mike.

"Hey guys," he purred into the microphone, anger and defiance spinning into sex and mockery on his tongue. _Jace. Jace damn Wayland. _"This next song's brand new – and it goes out to a very special blonde who's entered my life recently." He smirked. "This one's for you, baby."

Jace's eyes whipped to him, wide and shocked. Simon ignored him as his bandmates led him in, beat by beat, and then –

"_Let me suggest you do what you do,  
And I will do what I do best.  
You know I've always been, resenting,  
Resenting every word you've ever said –"_

Every time he'd had to remind Jace that he was a mundane – that he didn't _know_ about demons and runes and magic – didn't understand – every time Jace had taken that smug pleasure in holding the knowing over his head –

_"I load my words with care, and  
Aim them, at the desperate,  
Just, to check they can still hear as my, innocence, disappears~"_

Bit by bit. Pandemonium, raveners, his mother's disappearance – God, yes, fine, it was interesting and exciting, and for a while there he'd been crushing on Jace. _Fine._ But _his mom was gone_, kidnapped by some psychopath. That wasn't fun. That wasn't fucking _cool_, and as for Jace? The lies, and _Alec_, and Simon hurled the words out, all sharp and mocking and _no, sweetheart, this isn't a love song –_

"_I must be blind~  
To not have seen the signs~"_

_Because I've never met anyone more obvious –_

"Such a pretty little thing," he sang, thinking of Simiel, the sharp, weighted blade in his pocket, so fucking _innocuous_, "_So much prettier without me!"_

He hugged the mike with both hands, smirking and it felt so good, it felt fucking _fantastic_ to finally lash out in the way he was good at. He felt like laughing, could feel Jace's eyes on him, everyone's – it felt like having the bow in his hands, like watching the arrows fly one by one, but this time his weapons were words and he twisted them in like knives.

_"Life's a bitch, but I'm friends with her sister –"_ Simon purred.  
_"We talked it over and it's our~ little secret!  
It's your world, I'm just trying to live in it –  
When you're done, maybe try a little listening!"_

They hurled into the next quick, biting verse, and Simon spun on the stage, laughing, taunting, feeling the rush of it and Eric's drums under his skin. _You can't have me_, he sang without words, between the words. _I'm awesome and incredible and you cannot have me, because you're a liar and a heartbreaker and I refuse to want you back._

_"I smi-le _at_ all my enemies,  
I lead a _life_ of positivity!  
I deflect curses thrown my way,  
I regret, not saying..._

_"I must be blind~!_  
_To not have seen the signs~_  
_Such a pretty little thing,_  
_So much prettier without me!"_

He found himself pouting playfully as he slipped into the next few lines, heard the laughter in the crowd and grinned.

_"Oh when you~ decide~ to cut~ the strings~!  
When you~ decide~ to ruin, my summerti~me...!"_

Simon fell silent, paused for Matt's simple little riff, sought out Jace's eyes in the crowd so that the next lines were _all_ for him, blown like a kiss on sarcastic wings. "We can be anything," he promised, lied, his lips curved up and mocking even as, behind his mouth and in the music, it was more conflicted than that. _We will be nothing. Do you hear me? We will be nothing, because you are a liar and I'm too good for you. Because I don't want to be a Shadowhunter, and I don't mess around with other people's boyfriends, and I hate you a little bit for making me want to._

"_We can be anything, we can be what you like.  
We can be anything, we can be anything, we can be what you like.  
Oh, we~ can be~ what, you like~!"  
_

He put his all into it – the way he always did, but time there was anger, and fear, the wild rollercoaster of emotion since all this started. He sang his shock and disbelief about Simiel, his realisation of just what Alec was to Jace and how much Jace didn't care. His confusion and his excitement, the thrills and the terror, the magnetised, breathtaking pull he felt whenever Jace entered the damn room. And his fury, his disgust, with himself and with Jace; his confliction, his want and his self-mockery, his sarcasm, his _no, no, fuck no._

Eric and Matt and Kirk sang with him, giving him the echo effect, and the three of them played off each other, swapping lines and lyrics and merging the two verses together – Simiel's _pretty little thing_ and _ruining my summertime_. Because that was what it felt like – that was how it _all _felt – something incredible and magical in his pocket, and a full-scale disaster, a living nightmare that he couldn't wake up from, both at once. Blurring and mad and he didn't know how to make it stop.

Didn't know, deep down, if he wanted it to.

"_Oh when you~ decide~ to cut the strings!  
When you~ decide~ to ruin, my summerti~me..."_

The music trailed away, and the sudden absence of music filled Simon up like water in a glass. It sounded like a contradiction, to be so full of hollowness, but apparently it could be done, because the sense of triumph he'd expected was bitter and raw, like sour ginger on his tongue. He couldn't look away from Jace's blank, mask-like expression, and this wasn't a proper gig – Lint was here for background music, to play a soundtrack for these people's evening instead of performing to hold their attention. But now people were turning to look, because the music had stopped and he could feel Eric and the others staring at him, waiting-hoping for a cue, and Simon was all filled up on silence and golden eyes.

Jace looked away first, turning and vanishing into the crowd, and Simon's heart lurched. Without thinking about it he let go of the mike and jumped from the stage to the floor. He had no idea what he was planning, what he meant to say, only had the sharp, uncomfortable sense that he'd gone too far, crossed a line somewhere and ought to make it right, even if he had no clue how to do that.

But it was Isabelle who found and caught him, like a hawk snatching a sparrow out of the air. She was _spitting_. "What in Raziel's name was that?" she hissed, her gleaming fingernails digging into his wrist as she dragged him to one side.

"A song," he snapped at her, bristling. She was all silver, a long shimmery skirt and a top that clung to her skin, glittering with sequins like silver raindrops. Strands of matching beads clicked softly in her hair.

"You sang at _Jace_," she growled. "You called him _baby!_ What were you thinking?"

"Maybe I'm sick of dancing around his feelings!" Simon looked past her, and when he realised he was searching for Jace he bit his tongue angrily. Damn it, he _hadn't_ done anything wrong – it wasn't as if the song had been brutal. It was ridiculous to feel guilty. "And sick of what he's doing to Alec!"

Isabelle froze. "How do you know about Alec?" she whispered, her eyes gone wide.

He stared at her, confused and frustrated. "What are you talking about? They're _parabatai_, aren't they?"

"Well, yes, but – "

"So the Nephilim _are _with you," a familiar voice said musingly. "They claimed to be, but I wondered. How on earth did such a well-dressed young man get involved with _them?_"

Simon was somehow unsurprised to find Magnus lounging against a nearby pillar. The warlock's eyes were glazed and sleepy, but Simon was willing to bet he wasn't nearly as indifferent or careless as he seemed. Not if High Warlock actually meant anything. "It's complicated," he sighed.

"It usually is, with them," Magnus agreed. He smiled at Simon, ignoring Isabelle. "Liking the party?"

"It's great," Simon answered, pulling his wrist free of Isabelle's grip. She glared at him. "What's the occasion, anyway?"

"My cat's birthday," Magnus said solemnly.

Simon blinked, and automatically looked around, as if there might be a cat enthroned on a luxurious floating pillow somewhere. "Where is he?"

Magnus pushed himself upright, his face grave. "I don't know. He ran away."

"Um." Simon had no idea how to respond to that. "I hope he comes back soon," he said awkwardly. "I need to go find my friends now," he added uncertainly, not sure how to excuse himself. Magnus waved him away and disappeared before the words were even out of Simon's mouth.

"Will you keep an eye on Clary?" he asked Isabelle hurriedly. "Thanks." Before she could protest, he pushed past her and into the crowd, looking, again, for Jace. Some other source of music had been found, because people were dancing to it; Simon caught snatches of familiar lyrics and guessed that someone's iPod had been hooked up to a speaker system. At least no one was giving Lint hassle about the sudden break.

He found Jace by the bar, having exchanged his blank expression for a thoughtful one and a glowing green drink in a martini glass. Now Simon had found him, he wasn't sure what to say, or even what to feel. Still, thoughtful was better than upset, right? Not, Simon reminded himself firmly, that Jace had any right to be upset. Simon had barely done anything, whereas Jace was toying with Alec's heart and trying to hook Simon's in the bargain. Or at least get him into bed.

And still, Simon found himself asking "Are you okay?"

Jace turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "Why wouldn't I be? Indrani here makes a truly fabulous – " He paused and peered at his drink. "Well, whatever this is, it's good." He brought the glass to his mouth.

Simon frowned at him, uncertain. "I just thought – "

"I'm sure whatever you thought was very entertaining," Jace interrupted, "but we have a certain warlock to interrogate." He finished his drink in one long swallow (Simon did not watch the line of his throat). "And while I personally find it hilarious, I think we ought to hurry things along before your friend ends up under the hill."

Confused, Simon followed Jace's glance into the crowd. "What are you talking about?"

"On the dance floor." He pointed.

Simon looked – and saw Clary. She was laughing, and for a second Simon's heart gave a little pang, because her head was tipped close to the faerie girl from earlier, the one with fireflies glowing like little green gems in her hair, and the two of them were dancing so close –

Hang on. A faerie _girl?_

Simon looked away sharply, his head spinning. "Is that safe?" he asked, a little more sharply than he meant.

Jace shrugged. "She's not court fey, so as long as they don't leave the party – probably."

"_Probably?!_"

Jace rolled his eyes and grabbed Simon by the wrist. Everyone was doing that tonight. "Come on – the sooner we get our answers, the sooner you can take Clary home."

"Isabelle said she'd look after her," Simon muttered, ignoring the fact that no, Isabelle _hadn't_ said so. But he didn't resist as Jace tugged him along, although he did reclaim his hand. "You don't go to parties much, do you?" he asked, taking in the blonde's all-black outfit for the first time.

Jace gave him an incredulous look. "Really? We're about to unlock who-knows-what in your hidden memories, and you want to discuss _clothes?_"

Simon shrugged defensively. So maybe he was a little nervous. Just a little. The experience with the Silent Brothers hadn't exactly been a walk in the park, and he would be lying if he said he was looking forward to going through it again with Magnus.

They found the warlock with the cat eyes talking to Alec, of all people. Simon took in Magnus' body language in a glance, and the slip of paper he passed Alec with a smoothly elegant gesture – with two fingers, as if he were proffering a cigarette in a black and white film – and felt like throwing his hands up in the air as Alec accepted it. _That's it, I give up._ That was very obviously a phone number, and Jace didn't so much as blink at it, at Alec's dazed, surprised expression or the faint blush tracing his cheekbones as he tucked the number away in a pocket. _Either Shadowhunters really ARE into polyamory or these two have some open-ended thing going on and that's it, I am so freaking done. _

"Magnus," he said firmly, bolstered by Jace's presence, "if you've got a sec – "

"MAGNUS BANE!"

Before Simon could continue, one of the vampires appeared out of the crowd, pointing a dramatically trembling finger at the warlock, whose only response was to raise an eyebrow. To be fair, the vampire was short, bald, and sporting a goatee; Simon wasn't sure he would have taken the guy seriously either. "_Someone_ has poured holy water into the gas tank of my bike. It's ruined. Destroyed. All the pipes are melted."

"Melted?" Magnus murmured. "How dreadful."

"I want to know who did it." The vampire bared his teeth, and Simon couldn't help glancing at them, wondering which book or show had gotten it right. _Supernatural_, he thought smugly at the sight of thin, needle-like teeth. Then he paused, imagining Jace cutting his arm with a machete to catch a vampire, the way Dean had in _Fresh Blood_, back in season three. Hastily he shoved the thought away. "I thought you swore there'd be no wolf-men here tonight, _Bane_."

"I invited none of the Moon's Children," Magnus said softly, examining his glittering nails, "precisely because of your stupid little feud. If any of them decided to sabotage your bike, they weren't a guest of mine, and are therefore..." He smiled. "Not my responsibility."

The vampire bellowed with rage, jabbing his finger at Magnus accusingly. "Are you trying to tell me that – "

Magnus' glitter-dusted finger twitched, so slightly that Simon would have missed it if he hadn't been waiting for something like it. Mid-roar the vampire choked, and clutched his throat with disbelieving fingers. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You've worn out your welcome," Magnus said lazily. His golden eyes had that sleepy, glazed look in them again, the one that screamed otherness and danger to Simon's lizard brain. "Now go." He spread his fingers, and the vampire turned about sharply, like a soldier in parade. He marched off into the crowd, heading towards the door, and Simon could do nothing but stare.

Holy _Christ_.

Jace whistled. "That was impressive."

"You mean that little hissy fit?" Magnus rolled his eyes. "I know. What _is_ his problem?"

Alec made a choking noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Simon tried and failed to remember if he'd ever heard Alec laugh.

"We put the holy water in his gas talk, you know," Alec said.

"ALEC." Jace said. "Shut up."

"I assumed that," Magnus drawled, clearly amused. "Vindictive little bastards, aren't you? You know their bikes run on demon energies. I doubt he'll be able to repair it."

Jace shrugged. "One less leech with a fancy ride," he said. "My heart bleeds."

"I heard some of them can make their bikes fly," Alec said, more animated than Simon had ever seen him. He was almost smiling – and at Magnus.

The warlock's eyes glittered. "Merely an old witches' tale," he said lightly. "So is that why you wanted to crash my party? Just to wreck some bloodsucker bikes?"

The amusement was wiped from Jace's face instantly. "No," he said seriously. "We need to talk to you. Preferably somewhere private."

Magnus raised an eyebrow. Simon was starting to wonder if the entire Shadow World could do that. The overabundance of sass would explain a lot. "Am I in trouble with the Clave?"

"No," Jace said.

"Probably not," Alec assured him. Jace kicked him in the ankle. "Ow!"

"No," Jace repeated. "We can talk to you under the seal of the Covenant. If you help us, anything you say will be confidential."

Magnus considered them, the cat-slit pupils of his eyes resting on each of them in turn. "And if I don't help you?" he asked finally.

Jace spread his hands wide. It would have been a sign of helplessness – a _what can you do?_ gesture – if not for the stark, black Marks on his palms that were a stark, black warning. "Maybe nothing. Maybe a visit from the Silent City."

Magnus' voice was razor blades buried in cotton candy. "That's quite a choice you're offering me, little Shadowhunter."

"Stop it," Simon said harshly. He shook a little, as all three of them turned to him, but he pretended that he wasn't. "For crying out loud, Jace, is that really necessary?" He looked at Magnus. "I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to be calm in the face of those inscrutable gold eyes. "We're not – no one's going to blackmail you. If you won't help, then you won't." He took a breath. "But could you, please?"

His voice broke, embarrassingly. The loud music felt out of place, confusing the thick intensity wrapping the four of them – Alec, Jace, Magnus, Simon – like a fog. Simon could hardly breathe for hoping, dreading. If the Magnus said no, they had no more leads for finding Jocelyn – the warlock could very well hold her life in his hands.

"At least one of you has some manners," Magnus said finally. "Fine. Come into my boudoir – I suspect this is a conversation I would not enjoy having overheard."

)0(

Magnus had decorated his bedroom as unapologetically as he had his person; the mattress on the floor was made up in lemon-yellow, the curtains obscuring the floor-to-ceiling windows were unabashedly rainbow striped, and although it was hard to tell under the hundred-and-one little bottles and jars of make-up, paint and perfume, the dressing table was neon blue.

Simon felt the urge for sunglasses.

"Nice place," Jace commented. "Guess it pays well, being the High Warlock of Brooklyn?"

"It pays. Not much of a benefit package, though. No dental." Magnus shut the door behind him and leaned against it, folding his arms. The motion made his shirt draw up: the strip of toned golden stomach had no navel. "So. What's on your devious little minds?"

"I'm sorry about that back there," Simon said, before Jace could jump in with the blackmailing again. "I – really. If it makes it any better, it's nothing to do with them." _Mom._ He swallowed, and swallowed his pride with it. "I'm the one who needs your help."

Magnus turned those inhuman eyes on him again. Simon held his mother in his mind like a talisman and bore it. "You are not one of them," the warlock said after a moment. "Not of the Clave. But you can see the Invisible World."

"My mom was one of them. One of the Clave." Simon took a deep breath. "But she didn't tell me about it, and now she's missing. Taken by Valentine."

"I don't know any Valentine," Magnus said, but something flashed across his features, there and gone, and Simon knew he was lying. "I'm sorry for your tragic circumstances, but I fail to see what any of this has to do with me. If you could tell me – "

"He can't tell you anything, because he doesn't remember," Jace snapped. "Someone erased his memories. So we went to the Silent City to see what the Brothers could pull out of his head. They got two words. I think you can guess what they were."

Magnus stilled: for a moment, Simon wasn't even sure the warlock was breathing. Until suddenly, his lips quirked bitterly. "My signature," he said. "I knew it was folly when I did it. An act of hubris..."

Simon blinked. "You _signed my brain?_" He paused. "Actually, that's kind of cool."

Jace shot him a disbelieving look.

Instead of answering, Magnus raised his hand, moving his finger like a pen through the air. It was like writing with a sparkler on New Year's – lines of fire traced out the letters he drew, but instead of vanishing the way they would with a sparkler they hung there, bright and golden, casting light and shadows over Magnus' face. MAGNUS BANE.

"I was so proud of my work on you," he said quietly, glancing at Simon. "So clean. So perfect. What you saw you would forget, even as you saw it. No image of pixie or goblin or long-legged beastie would remain to trouble your blameless mortal sleep. It was the way she wanted it."

Simon's mouth was dry. "The way who wanted it?"

Magnus sighed, and his breath blew out the flaming letters, turned them into ash. And Simon was not surprised, although he wanted to be, when Magnus finally said, "Your mother."

* * *

NOTES

Regina's magic mirror is from Once Upon a Time.

Clary telling Simon not to turn into a daffodil is a reference to the Greek myth of Narcissus - the boy who fell in love with his own reflection and was turned into a flower for it.

The reference to Dean and vampires is, obviously, from Supernatural.

The song Lint sings in this chapter is Jaws on the Floor, by You Me At Six.


	15. Chapter 15

Here we go, guys, and only a day off schedule! Hope you enjoy this one. Next up, Hotel Dumort!

* * *

"My _mom?_" But Simon's shock didn't sound convincing, even to himself. Looking around, he saw pity in Jace's eyes, in Alec's – even Alec had guessed and felt sorry for him. They'd all seen this coming. "Do you know why?" Simon asked, glancing back at the warlock.

"No." Magnus spread his long golden hands. "It's not my job to ask questions. I do what I get paid to do."

"Within the bounds of the Covenant," Jace put in. His voice was soft as ashes, and had embers in it.

Magnus dipped his head in ironic acknowledgement. "Within the bounds of the Covenant, of course."

Simon found his fingers curling around Simiel again. It should have been warm from its time in his pocket, but instead the crystal was cool against his fingertips, soothing like an ice-pack during a fever.

It felt like he was standing in the hallway again, telling Jocelyn he would pack his bags when he came back; that same bitter sense of unfairness – and that same understanding. He got it. He didn't need to think about it, to scream up a fit of teenage pique and demand answers: he _knew_. If his mom had worked to keep all this from him, then it was to keep him safe. And considering all that had happened since he discovered the Shadow World, he could hardly say she'd been wrong to do what she did, could he?

He sighed, and pushed his glasses up so he could rub his eyes. Sometimes, he wished he wasn't so mature, so damn _fair_. Teenage pique sounded really good right now. "Was there something specific she wanted me to forget?"

Magnus moved over to the window. He looked restless, restrained, like a bird in a cage. "I don't think you understand. The first time I ever saw you, you must have been about two years old. I was watching out this window – " he tapped the glass " – and I saw her hurrying up the street, holding something wrapped in a blanket. I was surprised when she stopped at my door. She looked so ordinary. So young."

Moonlight spilled through the windows and gilded him with silver. "She unwrapped the blanket when she came in my door. You were inside it. She set you down on the floor and you started running around, picking things up, pulling my cat's tail – you screamed like a banshee when the cat scratched you, so I asked if you _were_ part banshee. She didn't laugh." He paused. Simon tried to pretend his heart wasn't pounding, eager for these scraps of his past. Even Alec stared at Magnus as if hypnotised. "She told me she was a Shadowhunter. There was no point in her lying about it; Covenant Marks show up, even when they've faded with time, like faint silver scars against the skin. They flickered when she moved." He knuckled the glitter make-up around his eyes, and Simon thought _I've never seen scars on mom._ "She told me she'd hoped you'd been born with a blind Inner Eye – some Shadowhunters have to be taught to see the Shadow World. But she'd caught you that afternoon, teasing a pixie trapped in a hedge. She knew you could _see_. So she asked me if it was possible to blind you of the Sight."

Jace and Alec hissed as one; Simon glanced at them, startled. Both Shadowhunters looked as if someone had threatened to stab a baby in front of them.

Magnus continued without apology. "I told her that crippling that part of your mind might leave you damaged, possibly insane. She didn't cry. She wasn't the sort of woman who weeps easily, your mother."

_I know that_, Simon thought fiercely, but didn't say it.

"She asked me if there was another way, and I told her you could be made to forget those parts of the Shadow World that you could see, even as you saw them. The only caveat was that she'd have to come to me every two years as the results of the spell began to fade."

"I'm guessing that she did," Simon said. His voice sounded strange to his ears.

Magnus nodded. "I've seen you every two years since that first time – I've watched you grow up. You're the only child I have ever watched grow up that way, you know. In my business one isn't generally that welcome around human children."

"You recognised Simon when he walked in," Jace said. Simon had already thought it, already remembered the quick flicker that had run across the warlock's face when he opened the door. "You must have."

"Of course I did." Magnus sounded irritated, although with his face to the window Simon couldn't see his expression. "And it was a shock, too. But what would you have done? He didn't know me. He wasn't supposed to know me. Just the fact that he was here meant the spell had started to fade – and in fact, we were due for another visit about a month ago. I even came by your house when I got back from Tanzania, but Jocelyn said that you were out with a friend. She said she'd call on me when you came back, but" a graceful shrug. "She never did."

Memory sparked; the gorgeous man he'd glimpsed outside Dorothea's apartment. Simon had been standing in the foyer with Clary. "I saw you," he said slowly. "I remember your eyes."

Magnus preened. "I'm memorable, it's true." Then he shook his head. "You shouldn't remember me. I threw up a glamour as hard as a wall as soon as I saw you. You should have run right into it face-first – psychically speaking."

"Simon's Sight is very strong," Jace said. Simon looked at him. "What? It is. You haven't had any trouble seeing through glamours. It's like you don't even have to try."

"I didn't realise," Simon said slowly. It didn't sound like a bad thing, but he couldn't make himself feel excited. "If you take the spell off me," he said, turning back to Magnus, "will I remember everything?"

"I can't take it off you."

"What?" Jace demanded, furious. "Why not? The Clave requires you – "

"Jace, _shut up_," Simon snapped. He ignored Jace's surprise and focussed on Magnus. "Why?"

Magnus had turned around to watch them, his inhuman eyes gleaming. Simon couldn't tell what he thought about a Shadowhunter giving way to a mundane singer. Now, the warlock sighed. "Undoing a spell is a great deal more difficult than creating it in the first place. The intricacy of this one, the care I put into weaving it – if I made even the smallest mistake in unravelling it, your mind could be damaged forever." He smiled thinly. "Besides, it's already begun to fade. The effects will vanish on their own, over time."

Simon nodded slowly, considering this. "So I'll get my memories back?"

"I don't know. They might come back all at once, or in stages. Or you might never remember what you've forgotten over the years. What your mother asked me to do was unique, in my experience. I've no idea what will happen."

_You might never remember._ Simon felt sick, gut-punched and stripped raw. Not because of the memories – he didn't feel any loss there. How could he? You couldn't miss what you'd never had, what you didn't remember. So he didn't remember pixies and unicorns: big fucking deal, he didn't care. The void could have his memories.

But his mom. _Jocelyn._ Simon had been praying to every god he knew that there would be _something _in his head to help them find his mom – and now it didn't matter whether there was or not, because they couldn't get at it.

They didn't have any other leads.

Jace put a hand on Simon's shoulder, the motion uncharacteristically tentative. "They'll come back," he said quietly, and Simon wondered what was on his face, to make Jace sound so uncertain, to make him reach out like this. "It's alright. It just might take a while – "

Simon stared at him incredulously. "Do you seriously think," he asked, feeling despair catch fire into rage, "that I give _one single fuck_ about my memories?" Jace flinched away, something like hurt flashing across his face. Simon didn't care. "I care about my _mom_, you unbelievable – that was the only reason I wanted the block undone. I don't care about not remembering. _How are we supposed to find her now?_"

_Do you think Valentine _listens_, when you mother begs him not to –_

Simiel's hard hilt bit into his palm. Simon wanted to scream.

"All right, listen," Magnus said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I can't undo what I've done, but I can give you something else. A piece of what would have been yours if you'd been raised a true child of the Nephilim."

_I don't care about that!_ Simon wanted to shout. _Shadowhunters, Nephilim – they don't matter! My mom matters!_ But he bit his tongue, watching as Magnus took down a thick book from the bookcase. Its cover was rotting, made of once-beautiful green velvet. Little pieces of it flaked off as Magnus turned soft, translucent pages of whisper-thin parchment.

Jace let his hand fall from Simon's shoulder. "Is that a copy of the Gray Book?"

"Hodge has one," Alec observed. Magnus, flipping pages, said nothing. "He showed it to me once."

_It's not grey, it's green_. Simon couldn't bring himself to care. He sank down onto the mattress-bed, for once not caring about being rude. _Mom, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do. _

"Gray is short for 'gramarye'," Jace offered, as if dangling more strange knowledge could coax Simon out of his thickening despair. When Simon didn't respond, Jace turned to the windowsill, brushing dust off it with his sleeve. "Which means 'magic, hidden wisdom'. In it is copied every rune the Angel Raziel wrote in the original Book of the Covenant. There aren't many copies because each one has to be specially made. Some of the runes are so powerful they'd burn through regular paper."

"I didn't know that." Alec's voice.

Jace hopped up onto the windowsill and swung his legs like a child. "Not all of us sleep through history lessons."

"I do not – "

"Oh, yes you do, and drool on the desk besides."

"Shut up," Magnus said lightly. He hooked his finger between two pages and walked across the room to Simon. He knelt down next to him, and carefully set the book in Simon's lap. "Now, when I open the book, I want you to study the page. Look at it until you feel something change inside your mind."

Simon nodded without speaking. Magnus looked at him for a moment, and then sighed. He stood up, letting the book fall open.

Numbly, Simon looked down at the page. A rune waited for him, a stark knot of calligraphy against the seashell-thin paper, blacker than ink or ravens or a midnight sky. Blacker than anything. Like a Rorschach test it shifted when he tilted his head; now a winged spiral, then a caduceus, and then – then something shivered, the same electric thrill of feeling a song come together, and Simon's eyes burned as if with tears. But he didn't close them, didn't blink, and he felt the moment that something shifted in his head, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

The rune on the page suddenly seemed more focussed, more _real_ than anything else, and abruptly Simon thought it looked like a music note. It didn't, it was nothing like a quaver or clef, but – but in the same way that aliens would know Pythagoras' theorem even if they had a different name for it, even if the symbols they used for numbers were nothing like the human ones – in that way, the rune made Simon think of music. Music in another language. And it was like Mandarin, in that a single image could be a whole word – the rune was an entire song, he could feel it unfolding in his mind, bar after bar of music, and the name of the song was _Remember._

Eagerly now, Simon turned the next page, and the next, listening to the Marks' silent songs play on some instrument he'd never heard, something rich as a harp and thrilling as an electric guitar all at once. It was trumpet and flute and drum, violin and double bass, and something more, something that made Simon's chest ache with longing awe, like light spun into sound and played on diamond. _Sorrow. Thought. Strength. Protection. Grace –_

The sudden jolt of silence – _real_ silence, as Magnus slammed the book shut and the singing stopped – made Simon cry out before he could stop himself.

"That's enough," the warlock ordered. He reclaimed the book, and crossed the room to put it back on its shelf. "If you read all the runes at once, you'll make yourself sick."

"But – " Simon didn't know what he might have said. _But the music – !_ Echoes of it ran down his spine like golden knives, made his stomach twist with ardent loss. That it was already fading from his mind made his breath catch in his throat, as if with tears.

"Most Shadowhunter children grow up learning one rune at a time over a period of years." Jace was watching him carefully. "The Gray Book contains runes even I don't know."

"Imagine that," Magnus said sardonically.

Jace ignored him. He was frowning at Simon's expression; Simon tried to get himself under control. "Magnus showed you the rune for understanding and remembrance. It opens your mind up to reading and recognising the rest of the Marks."

"It also may serve as a trigger to activate dormant memories." Magnus wiped his hands on his colourful pants, leaving streaks of dust from the book. "They could return to you more quickly than they would otherwise. It's the best I can do."

"Thanks," Simon managed. His throat ached. Why had the runes hit him so hard? Was this normal? He made himself breathe, and ran through his mind, searching for anything new. Would he recognise a new memory? Would it stand out from the rest? "I still don't remember anything about the Mortal Cup."

"Is _that _what this is about?" Magnus asked, stunned. "You're after the Angel's Cup? Look, I've been through your memories. There was nothing in them about the Mortal Instruments."

"The what now?"

"The Angel gave three items to the first Shadowhunters. A cup, a sword, and a mirror. The Silent Brothers have the Sword," Simon remembered the silver blade on the wall, with a hilt like outstretched wings, "and the Cup and the Mirror were in Idris, at least until Valentine came along."

"Nobody knows where the Mirror is," Alec corrected. "Nobody's known for ages."

"It's the Cup that concerns us." Jace was still swinging his legs, carelessly. "Valentine's looking for it."

"And you want to get to it before he does?" Magnus' eyebrows shot upwards.

"So much for not knowing who he is," Simon said. He just managed not to snap it.

"I lied," Magnus said easily. "I'm not one of the fey, you know. I'm not required to be truthful. And only a fool would get between Valentine and his revenge."

"Is that what you think he's after?" Jace asked. "Revenge?"

"I would guess so. He suffered a grave defeat, and he hardly seemed – seems – the type of man to suffer defeat gracefully."

Alec looked at Magnus sharply. "Were you at the Uprising?"

Magnus met Alec's gaze without blinking. "I was. I killed a number of your folk."

"Circle members," Jace said quietly. "Not ours."

"If you insist on disavowing that which is ugly about what you do," Magnus said without looking away from Alec, "you will never learn from your mistakes."

Alec looked away first, flushing unhappily. "You don't seem surprised to hear that Valentine's still alive."

Magnus spread his hands. "Are you?"

Jace opened his mouth – and then closed it again. He looked honestly baffled. "So you won't help us find the Mortal Cup?"

"I wouldn't if I could. Which, by the way, I can't." Magnus spread his fingers and examined his nails once more. "I've no idea where it is, and I don't care to know." He flicked his eyes at Jace. "Only a fool, as I said."

Alec straightened up. "But without the Cup, we can't – "

"Make more of you. I know." Magnus' lips curled. "Perhaps not everyone regards that as quite the disaster you do. Mind you," he added, "if I had to choose between the Clave and Valentine, I would choose the Clave. At least they're not actually sworn to wipe out my kind. But nothing the Clave has done has earned my unswerving loyalty either. So no, I'll sit this one out. Now if we're done here, I'd like to get back to my party before any of my guests eat each other."

Jace's hands were curling and uncurling, and his jaw was tight. Alec moved and put a hand on his shoulder. The room wasn't brightly lit, but Simon thought Alec might be squeezing rather hard. "Is that likely?" Alec asked.

Magnus glanced at him with amusement. "It's happened before."

Jace muttered something under his breath: Alec released him. The blonde slid off the windowsill and came over to Simon. "Are you all right?" he asked, quiet and low.

"Does it matter?" Simon only just held back a snarl. He shoved himself to his feet. His insides felt knotted, his head dizzy with the fading memory of that incredible music, with murdered hope and a barely held-back misery.

His attention was caught by Magnus snapping his fingers. "Move it along, teenagers. The only person who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self."

"I assure you, there won't be any canoodling," Simon drawled, mimicking Magnus' pattern of speech.

"Magnificent?" Echoed Jace, ignoring Simon.

Magnus growled. He moved his hand, and for a moment Simon wondered if the warlock would play Jace like a puppet, like he had the vampire. But he only pointed at the door. "Get out."

They got. Magnus locked the door behind them. "Are you going to continue playing?"

Simon stood still, looking over the party. His vision seemed clearer; everything had crystalline edges. "I'm sorry." His voice sounded very far away. "I...I don't think I'm up to it."

Magnus sighed. "_Artists_." He paused, then looked at Simon consideringly. "Are you sure?" he asked plaintively. "Because the back-up band are all fey, and I might have to abandon my own party if they sing."

"I'm sorry," Simon said again. His body felt heavy and tired. He followed after Jace and Alec numbly.

"Have you seen Isabelle?" Alec asked him, with a slightly worried frown.

A rush of guilty concern slammed into Simon: he'd forgotten all about Clary. "No, I – " He turned in a circle, looking for her – for both girls.

"There she is." Alec waved Isabelle over, relief softening his face. "Over here. And watch out for the phouka."

"Watch out for the phouka?" Jace glanced at a brown-skinned man in a lacy green vest who watched Isabelle thoughtfully as she walked past him.

"He pinched me when I passed him earlier," Alec said stiffly. "In a highly personal area."

Despite himself Simon snorted, and Jace grinned. "I hate to break it to you, but if he's interested in your highly personal areas, he probably isn't interested in your sister's."

Simon raised his eyebrows. "Bisexual standing right here," he said wryly.

Alec gaped at him, and Simon realised Alec had never heard his little declaration outside Dorothea's apartment.

"Besides, faeries aren't particular," Magnus commented.

Jace's amusement vanished. "You still here?" he asked, his lip curling.

Isabelle swept upon them before Magnus had a chance to reply. Her face was splotchy and pink, and she smelled very strongly of alcohol. Simon felt his heart sink. "Jace! Alec! Where have you been? I've been looking all over – "

"Where's Clary?" Simon interrupted.

Isabelle wobbled. "She's a mouse."

All three boys wore identical expressions of confusion. "She – what?" Simon asked.

"She's drunk," Jace said disgustedly.

"I'm not!" Isabelle protested, indignant. "Well, maybe a little, but that's not the point. The point is, Clary drank one of those blue drinks – I told her not to, but she didn't listen – and she _turned into a mouse_."

"A _mouse?_"

"The Clave isn't going to like this," Alec said dubiously. "I'm pretty sure turning mundanes into mice is against the Law."

"Technically she didn't turn her into a mouse," Jace pointed out. "The worst Izzy can be accused of is negligence."

"Are you _fucking kidding me?"_ Simon shouted. He grabbed Isabelle's wrist, and barely resisted the urge to dig in with his nails when she tried to pull it away. "_Where the hell is Clary?"_

"Ouch! Let go of me!"

"Get off of her!" Alec's blue eyes burned in defence of his sister; and when he moved forward everything went sharp and hot and cold and Simon had Simiel in his hand before he could think about it, the blade coming free as Simon hissed its name like a warning. Alec and Jace both froze.

Simon turned back to Isabelle. "_Tell me where she is!"_ he snarled. He felt her bones grind together under his fingers, and wanted them to snap. "I can't believe you just _left her_ – "

"I didn't leave her, she ran under the bar!" Isabelle pointed with her free hand.

Simon shoved her away hard, snapping Simiel back into its hilt as if he'd been doing it all his life. It went into his pocket as he ran for the bar, pushing through dancers, and he dropped to his knees to peer into the dark space between the bar and the floor.

"Clary?" His voice broke, and he prayed his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, that he really was seeing a pair of tiny dark eyes. "Is that you?"

Clary-the-mouse extended her head forward slightly, trembling. Simon understood the impulse; his own hands were shaking.

"Clary, it's me," he whispered. Little animals didn't like big noises, did they? The music was probably hurting her little seashell ears. "Simon." Slowly, terrified of scaring her away, he extended one hand beneath the bar. "Please come out? I swear, I _swear_ I'll take care of you. We'll get Magnus to take the spell off, it'll be okay. I promise."

Jace and the others arrived behind him. Isabelle was rubbing her wrist. "Is she under there?" Jace asked, more curious than concerned.

Simon clenched his jaw. "Get the hell away from us," he snapped. "You'll scare her away!"

Jace rolled his eyes, but backed up some. Simon forced himself to breathe evenly and ignore them. "Clary," he called softly. "Come on, Clary. Please?"

There was a squeak – Simon almost didn't hear it over the music – and suddenly a little brown shape came running out from beneath the bar, leaping into Simon's hand. "Clary!" He scooped her up instantly, cradling her carefully against his chest. "You understood me!" It hadn't even occurred to him that she might not – but what if her brain had become a mouse brain? He'd never have coaxed her out if she'd become a real mouse. The near miss chilled him to the bone.

"She's kind of cute like that," Jace commented with a grin, peering over Simon's shoulder.

If Simon hadn't had his hands full, he would have done his best to deck the smug bastard. "Why don't you make yourself useful," he said through gritted teeth, "and get Magnus so we can _change her back._"

"Izzy, go fetch our magnificent host," Jace said carelessly.

"Why me?" Isabelle asked sulkily.

"Because it's your fault the mundane's a mouse, idiot," he said. "And we can't leave her here."

"You'd be happy to leave her if it weren't for _him_," Isabelle spat. She spun on her heel and vanished into the crowd.

Simon stroked his fingertip over mouse-Clary's head, his gut twisted between rage and guilt. He should have made sure Isabelle would watch Clary properly – Hell, he shouldn't have let Clary come at all tonight! There was no reason for her to be involved in all this – the Shadowhunters were Simon's problem, not hers. Clary had no obligation to help him find his mom.

Neither did Jace and the others, come to that.

He heard someone chuckle, and glanced up. Magnus' idle amusement was completely at odds with Isabelle's fury, but she was standing behind the warlock and Simon ignored her. "_Mus musculus_," Magnus said, peering at Clary. "A common house mouse, nothing exotic."

Simon bit his tongue to keep from snapping _Does that matter? _For all he knew, the type of mouse Clary was would affect how to change her back. Maybe it _did_ matter. "Could you – can you please turn her back?"

"Hm..." Magnus ran a hand through his hair, causing a fine mist of glitter to gather around his head and shoulders. "No point."

"That's what I said." Jace looked pleased.

Simon did not explode, even as Clary squeaked a protest. He cupped her a little closer to his chest, to hide how his hands trembled. "Why is there no point?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. If Magnus said _one fucking word _about mundanes, Simon was going to lose it.

"Because she'll turn back on her own in a few hours." Magnus straightened up, apparently done with his examination of Clary. "The effect of the cocktails is temporary. No point working up a transformation spell; it'll just traumatise her. Too much magic is hard on mundanes, you know. Their systems aren't used to it."

Slowly, the knot of rage in Simon's gut loosened, and he looked back down at Clary. She sat up in his hands on her hind paws, and despite everything he felt a grin pull at his lips. He could have sworn she frowned, but the nip to the heel of his hand made her displeasure perfectly obvious. "Sorry," he said hastily when she looked like she might do it again. "Only, you're kind of adorable. But at least we came in the van, right?" Gently, he stroked her head again. She felt so fragile, and Simon felt nauseas at the thought of how easily she could have been hurt, if she hadn't been smart enough to run under the bar. "Imagine if we had to get you home on the subway."

Shouting began to rise over the music, a gaggle of angry voices somewhere near the door of the apartment. Magnus rolled his eyes. "Excuse me," he said lightly, and vanished into the crowd, presumably to go deal with it.

"So much for _his_ help," Isabelle muttered.

Alec was frowning. "You know," he said slowly, "you could always put the mouse in your backpack."

"Her name is _Clary_," Simon snapped. But there didn't seem anything wrong with the idea – although what did it say about him, Simon wondered, that Alec knew he would have brought his rucksack with him to the party? Or maybe it wasn't him – maybe Alec expected it because keeping supplies close by was probably a Shadowhunter thing to do, like always having a weapon somewhere on your person.

Was expecting him to think like a Shadowhunter an insult, or a compliment?

Neither, Simon realised sharply, feeling sick. It was a sign of how isolated Alec and the others were – they thought everyone thought the way they did, because they didn't know anyone but people like them.

That was fucking terrifying to contemplate.

"Where are you going?" Jace demanded as Simon carefully got to his feet, hyper-aware of Clary's tiny mouse-body.

"My bag's on the stage. And I should tell the guys to pack up anyway."

"You're leaving?"

Simon stared at him. "I'm not really in the mood to party while my best friend's a mouse," he said frostily.

Jace frowned, but Simon turned away before he could say anything else. People were moving towards the door, towards the shouting, which made it easier – if not strictly easy – for Simon to get through the crowd. He cupped his hands completely over Clary, encasing her so there was no possible way she could fall. From the furry wiggling against his fingers he guessed she wasn't happy about it, and he couldn't blame her – he didn't like tight spaces either, and his hands weren't large enough for there to be a lot of room in his hand-bubble. But she didn't bite him, and it was still far, far better than dropping her for someone to step on.

Eric, Matt and Kirk were all exactly where he'd left them – creepily so, as if they were stoned off their heads, smiling and staring off into the distance. Simon sickly hoped this was just Magnus' spell to make them remember tonight as a dream, and not something new to worry about. "Guys?" he tried, carefully going to his knees so he could grab his bag from behind the drum set. "We should pack up and head home now."

"Okay," Eric said dreamily. The other two mumbled contented agreement, and started dismantling their instruments. Kirk wandered off to disconnect the electrical cords as Simon opened his rucksack and gently placed Clary inside.

She sneezed. It was adorable.

"Sorry," Simon apologised. "I haven't had a chance to do any laundry yet." He picked her up again, and single-handedly rearranged things so that a clean shirt was on top. "That better?"

She walked in a little circle, making a depression in the fabric, and then curled up like a Celtic knot.

"I'll take that as a yes," he decided. When she closed her eyes, he zipped the bag up and swung it onto his shoulder, his stomach tight with worry and concern, trying to make every gesture slowly and smoothly so as not to jostle her.

Kirk returned with the cords, but they were going to need some help shifting Eric's drums. Simon wondered if he dared approach any vampires about it, but he didn't see that they had much of a choice, and he wasn't going to risk sending one of the guys to go ask. He doubted they would say 'no' in their weird dreamy state if anybody asked to bite them.

His best friend was a mouse: he didn't need the rest of his social circle to become vampire kibble too.

Back and forth Simon went again, looking for someone who might help. The Shadowhunters had vanished again, and the vampires all seemed gathered in a knot by Magnus, fiercely arguing about something; it didn't seem like a good time to go bother them. They looked more likely to bite his head off – maybe literally! – than indulge him in a game of heavy lifting.

"Simon?"

Simon spun around at the unfamiliar voice, and stared. "Kaelie?"

She grinned those star-splinter teeth at him. "It _is_ you!" Out of her waitress uniform, he nearly hadn't recognised her; her silky tube top shimmered like a peacock's tail, and the blue-green called attention to her inhuman eyes. Simon grinned back at her, weirdly pleased to see someone flaunting their otherness instead of covering it up. "I thought I recognised you on the stage! I had no idea you sang!"

"Yeah, well." He smiled, a little sheepish. He had never worked out how to respond to people who liked his music. "Now you know."

She laughed. "Aren't you adorable? Seriously, though, you guys are really good. I mean, you had all of _us_ dancing, and most of us don't like modern music at all!"

"Who's 'us'?"

She grinned. "We have lots of names," she purred. "The Little People. The Fair Family. The Gentry. The Shining Ones." Her smile widened, flashing those teeth at him as she said, "My favourite is the People of Peace."

Nothing, Simon thought with a little jolt of nerves, that had teeth like that could be called 'peaceful'.

But luckily he'd read enough fantasy to know that saying 'fairies' aloud might get him in trouble, so he only nodded, in what he hoped was a wise and knowing fashion. "I'm glad the People of Peace enjoyed our music," he said formally. Politeness, he remembered from the stories, was of paramount importance when dealing with the fey. Whether the stories were true or not, it couldn't hurt. "We're just wrapping up, though."

She sighed. "So sad," she said mournfully.

She looked so disappointed that he didn't feel like he was taking advantage by asking, "Do you know anyone who could help us pack up? I mean, we need some help shifting the instruments – it's not going to be very exciting or anything – "

She didn't let him finish. "I'd be happy to! And I know others who'll help – give me one sec, and we'll meet you back at the stage!" She vanished before he could express his gratitude – which was lucky, because the stories also said you weren't supposed to say 'thank you', and it had been on the tip of his tongue.

Close call. There'd been too many of those lately.

There were, indeed, a small group of people waiting when he managed to get back to the stage – among them the girl Clary had been dancing with. She looked around – for Clary? – but didn't approach Simon to ask her whereabouts, just calmly followed Simon's instructions along with the others. They all seemed strangely happy to help, as if lifting heavy drum sets was a rare treat instead of a difficult chore. But then, the boy whose tattoos of horses and dragons moved on his arms as if alive lifted the bass drum like it was nothing, and the others all seemed equally strong.

Simon decided to count his blessings instead of trying to understand it.

Matt and Kirk and Eric followed along like ducklings after their mother, and Kaelie walked next to Simon with the China cymbal, making suggestions for the band's future venues. Simon wished he had a paper and pen to make notes of all the Shadow World hotspots – he would have loved to check out Elysium, with real mermaids dancing in tanks set into the walls and lightshows worked by fairies – "and you _have_ to make it to Hel's Bells, they'd love you guys. I know a guy who knows a guy who could definitely get you a gig there."

But Simon suddenly wasn't listening. The tight knot of yelling people by the door turned out to be more vampires, all of them pale and dark-haired like something out of a bad horror movie. Except some of them, he noticed inanely, had blonde eyebrows. _So they dye their hair to fit the stereotype? Why? _Didn't they know that Lestat had been blonde? Who could possibly be a better vampire to emulate than Anne Rice's Brat Prince?

They were gathered around Magnus, shouting about the fact that some of their friends were missing and unaccounted for.

"They're probably drunk and passed out somewhere," Magnus was saying carelessly. "You know how you lot tend to turn into bats and piles of dust when you've downed a few too many Bloody Marys."

"They mix their vodka with real blood," Jace said in Simon's ear.

Simon jumped. "Where the hell have you been?" he hissed. Isabelle and Alec had arrived with just as little warning, flanking Jace like the three musketeers.

Jace shrugged, then eyed the gathered fey with Lint's instruments. "So you really are leaving. Good. Things are getting tense in here."

"We can't go around picking up every pile of dust in the place just in case it turns out to be Gregor in the morning!" A sulky vampire girl snapped.

"Gregor will be fine. I rarely sweep," Magnus assured her. "I'm happy to send any stragglers back to the hotel come tomorrow – in a car with blacked-out windows, of course."

"Simon?" Kaelie poked him gently with a blue fingernail. "Are you okay?"

"He's fine," Jace answered, his eyes narrowing at her. "Let's get this all put away, and we can wrap this up."

He pushed Simon towards the exit. The crowd was mostly made up of vampires here, and was tightly packed. Simon struggled to keep one hand on the strap of his rucksack while carrying his guitar.

"All right, that's IT!" Magnus shouted. "Party's over! Everybody out!"

It would have been nice, Simon thought, if Magnus had waited a few more minutes: obediently the partygoers all started moving towards the door, and things got even more crushed. Someone bumped into Simon's shoulder, hard, and he almost fell; a hand brushed his rucksack and then grasped his shoulder, hoisting him up. When he looked, he saw a vampire with a stake earring grinning at him. "Hey, pretty thing," the vampire purred. "What's in the bag?"

"Holy water." Jace appeared beside them as if conjured, his eyes blazing.

"Ooh, a _Shadowhunter_," the vampire grinned, waggling his fingers in a mock-spooky gesture. "Scary." He winked at Simon and melted back into the crowd.

"Vampires are such prima donnas," Kaelie sniffed.

"So true," Magnus sighed. He was lounging to one side of the doorway, examining his nails. "Honestly, I don't know why I have these parties."

"Because of your cat," Simon reminded him.

Magnus perked up. "That's true. Chairman Meow deserves my every effort." He cocked his head. "You on your way out?"

"You did end the party." Simon gave up and pushed the guitar into Jace's surprised arms. "Carry this for me, would you?"

"Next time, do leave the Shadowhunters at home," Magnus told Simon. "Except for _that_ one. He can come any time." He pointed a shining fingernail at Alec, and one gleaming cat-eye winked. "Call me?"

Alec blushed and stuttered and probably would have stood there until Judgement Day if Jace hadn't rolled his eyes and – heedless of the weight of Simon's guitar – grasped his arm and hauled him out the door, Isabelle following close behind.

Magnus tapped Simon's shoulder when he made to go after them. "I have a message for you. From your mother."

Simon's heart stopped. "Go on," he told Kaelie, without looking away from the warlock. "There's – there's a van. Just put the instruments in there, please? I'll catch up in a second."

Kaelie glanced at Magnus, and capitulated with a nod. She and the other fairies carried the various instruments through the doorway and down the stairs, herding Eric and the others before vanishing out of sight.

"What's the message?" Simon asked, the moment they were gone. "Did she tell you to tell me something?" His mind raced, replaying a thousand mystery stories. Maybe his mom had put fail safes in place – maybe she'd left messages with all kinds of people, in case Simon ever got dragged into this. Maybe she'd left _clues_. Suddenly the hope that had died when they learned his memories were out of reach and useless sparked again.

"Not exactly." Magnus' feline gaze, all jade and gold, were solemn. "But I knew her in a way that you didn't. She did what she did to keep you out of a world she hated. Her whole existence, the running, the hiding – were to keep you safe. Don't waste her sacrifices by risking your life. She wouldn't want that."

The hope dashed, and Simon swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "I know," he said quietly. And he did. He didn't like it, but he understood why Jocelyn had done what she did, and couldn't blame her for it. He could have died half a dozen times in the last week; she'd clearly been right to keep him out of the Shadow World. "But I can't – I can't walk away until I get her back."

"If it means putting yourself in danger, walking away is exactly what she would tell you to do."

Yeah, it was. He could almost hear his mother's voice ordering him away from all of this: _Don't you dare put yourself at risk to save me, Simon Fray! It's my job to protect you, not the other way around! _

_But you can't protect me, mom. Not anymore. Not until this is over. _He felt sick. _I'm sorry. _

"And one last thing." Magnus' eyes flicked towards the door, through which Jace and the others had disappeared. "Keep in mind that when your mother fled from the Shadow World, it wasn't the monsters she was hiding from. Not the warlocks, the wolf-men, the Fair Folk, not even the demons themselves. It was _them_. It was the Shadowhunters."

)0(

Outside, most of the fairies had gone, leaving the instruments safely tucked away in the van. Kaelie stood chatting with a more animated Kirk; Jace was leaning against the stairway railing, a small smirk curving his lips as he watched the vampires massed around their broken motorbikes, cursing and swearing. Alec and Isabelle stood a little way off from the others, talking quietly. Intensity fairly fizzed off of them, but Simon left them to it.

"Thanks for the help," he told Kaelie gratefully as he approached her. "I don't know what we'd have done without you guys."

She smiled. "It was no trouble. Hopefully I'll see you play again soon." She glanced sideways at Jace, who had pushed himself off the railing and was walking towards them. "Maybe you could take my number, and call me when you know when your next performance is?"

Simon hesitated a second, but couldn't think of a good reason to say no. "Um, okay – "

Jace was out of Simon's line of sight for a moment, but not Kaelie's. Whatever the blonde did made the girl laugh, and she held up her hands in surrender. "Or maybe not. I'll just have to keep my ears cocked. Catch you later, sweetie."

She kissed his cheek and darted away with a dainty wave before Simon could figure out what had just happened. Although Jace's smug expression, when Simon turned to him, was fairly self-explanatory.

"You – seriously?"

Jace's pose instantly morphed into one of innocence. "What?"

Simon sighed. "It's not worth it," he muttered. Sometime soon he and Jace would have to have it out – in the normal, obvious way, with frank words instead of sung lyrics – but that would have to wait until his best friend wasn't a mouse.

Which reminded him. Gently, he lowered his bag off his shoulder, meaning to check and make sure that Clary was still okay –

And froze.

The rucksack was open.

He had not left it open. He had zipped it up after putting Clary inside it. _It should not be open._

"What's wrong?" Jace asked. Simon heard the oncoming sarcasm in his voice, but then he stopped, presumably seeing the look on Simon's face. "Simon?"

Simon dropped to his knees, ripping the zipper open the rest of the way. He tore through shirts, underwear, his notebook and iPad, heedless of Jace watching him, or Isabelle and Alec coming over to see what the fuss was. His heart was screaming in his chest, and every second, every sock he threw onto the pavement that didn't have Clary hiding under it, made the world press tight against his skin.

"She's not here. She's not here!"

"Did she climb out?" Jace asked, suddenly close.

It was late, and Simon was tired, and it had been one thing after another tonight: he snapped. "_No!_" he shouted. "_Of course she freaking didn't!_ She's not that fucking _stupid_ – just because you think mundanes are _worthless_ – "

"Simon – "

"_Shut up!_" A scream of helpless rage caught in his throat, and Simon snapped to his feet, swinging the almost empty pack at Jace's head. "You didn't even want to change her back!"

Jace caught the bag and tugged it away from him, making Simon stumble. But he didn't fall, and before he could lunge at Jace the blonde said, "It's been torn."

"What?"

Jace looked up from his examination of the rucksack. "The zipper," he said gently. "It's been torn. From the outside. Someone ripped this bag open."

It hit Simon like a freight train. "Someone took her," he whispered. "Somebody took Clary."


	16. Chapter 16

This chapter was delayed because, in all honesty, I got depressed about it. I know this fic has fans, but very few of you ever comment. I'm not flaming or bitching (I'm trying not to, anyway), but it gets incredibly depressing, working so hard on a chapter to get virtually no response. As I said on tumblr – I know how this story goes. I don't need to write it. So if you guys don't particularly care about it, there isn't much need in me to write it.

Just a line or two about what you think of the chapter can really, really make my day.

As such, this chapter goes out to thewhiteknightcentury and itsalwayssunnyingraceadelphia on ao3, and thrimble on , for writing me really lovely comments of encouragement. I got your comments over the last 24 hours, and I swear, I finished this chapter hours later. You guys inspired me - without you, this chapter wouldn't exist: certainly not now, and maybe not ever. Thank you so much.

* * *

Everything went blank for a little while. Simon's head was full of white noise, his processors jammed; the street and the van and the Shadowhunters all vanished, only one thought filling everything –

_Somebody took Clary._

Took her. She hadn't fallen out of the bag, or smelled cheese and snuck out on her own. She'd been _taken_. Deliberately. All those creatures in Magnus' party with sharp, sharp teeth – they wouldn't want a mouse as a pet. They'd want – they'd want to _eat_ her, or use bits of her for a spell, or something equally horrible. Clary. His best friend – her graphite-smudged fingertips and her red hair, her graphic novels, her appalling taste in music – it could, it could all be vanishing down some _thing's_ gullet right this second –

"Simon. Simon?"

The world snapped back into place, like a set's backdrop being dropped into view: dark street, dully glowing lampposts, the converted warehouses. _Spot the difference_: the vampires on their bikes were gone, and so was Eric's van. There was only Jace, his hair and skin and eyes all gleaming soft gold in the dim light, like an aurulent aurora borealis, silent but bright in the dark.

"Where...?"

He meant _where's Clary, help me find Clary_, but Jace misunderstood. "Your friends seemed drunk, so I sent Izzy and Alec to drive them home."

"Not drunk," Simon mumbled, sick. Dizzy. Or, not _dizzy_, precisely, but it felt as though the ground was uncertain beneath his feet, like the deck of a ship in a storm. "Magnus – a spell – so they wouldn't remember..."

This must have made sense to Jace, because he nodded. "We'll find her," he said gently, and this time there were no misunderstandings: Simon knew intrinsically who Jace meant. "I promise."

_You promised we'd find my mom, too, and look how that turned out._ But even in his – whatever this was – Simon managed not to say it out loud. That would be – too sharp a weapon. Too deep a wound to inflict lightly in a moment of lashing-out. He took a deep breath. "How." It was not a question.

Something between a command and a plea, but not a question.

In answer Jace's fingers closed around Simon's wrist, firm and warm and solid, and led him back towards the entryway of Magnus' building. Fragments pushed through Simon's force field of numb shock; the stink of alcohol and hot tarmac, urine, and something sweet and strange that whispered _Downworlder_ in the depths of Simon's lizard-brain. Jace swung Simon's back-pack over his shoulder, and let go of Simon's wrist to press Magnus' buzzer.

He had to press it twice. The second time, he held the button down for a continuous, grating whine until the warlock's voice roared out of the intercom. "WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?"

Jace looked...almost nervous. That was not the slightest bit reassuring. "Jace Wayland. Remember? I'm from the Clave."

"Oh, yes." In an instant, Magnus went from divinely offended to intensely interested. "Are you the one with the blue eyes?"

That startled a snort out of Simon. Jace glanced at him with an unreadable expression before answering. "No. My eyes are usually described as golden. And luminous."

"Oh, you're _that_ one." Magnus sighed, disappointed. "I suppose you'd better come up."

He answered his door wearing a dragon-print silk kimono, a gold turban, and an expression of barely restrained irritation.

"I," he said loftily, "was _sleeping_."

"Sorry." Simon blinked: that had been _his_ voice. "I – we – "

The sudden appearance of something small and white materialising around the warlock's ankles stopped the words in Simon's throat. The creature was zigzagged in grey, with soft pink ears that made it look more like a mouse than a cat. But it was most definitely a cat. _And Clary was a brown mouse anyway, not a white one._

"Chairman Meow has returned," Magnus explained when Simon continued to stare.

Jace clearly did not think much of Magnus' pet. "That's not a cat. It's the size of a hamster."

"I am kindly going to forget you said that." Magnus nudged Chairman Meow behind him with an elegantly bare foot. "Now, exactly what did you come here for?"

"Clary. Clary is missing," Simon burst out. "She's – somebody took her. Out of my bag."

Magnus looked at him, raising one scintillating eyebrow. "And?"

"And we need to find out who it was," Jace said steadily, putting his hand on Simon's shoulder. Perhaps he remembered how Simon had pulled Simiel on Alec – Simon hadn't thought of it before Jace's restraining motion reminded him. But he couldn't imagine drawing a weapon on Magnus. Alec had nearly killed him: Magnus had...not. "I'm guessing you know," Jace continued. "You _are_ the High Warlock of Brooklyn. I'm thinking not much happens in your own apartment that you don't know about."

Magnus examined a nail. He had not yet removed the glittering nail polish; it flashed like a jewel. "You're not wrong."

"Please." Jace's hand tightened on Simon's shoulder, but Simon couldn't make himself be quiet. "She's my – please."

Magnus sighed. His hand fell. "Fine. I saw one of the vampire bike kids from the uptown laid leave with a brown mouse in his hands. Honestly, I figured it was one of their own. Sometimes the Night Children turn into rodents when they get drunk. Rats and bats, usually, but mice too, sometimes."

"But now you think it was Clary?" The continental drift of Simon's thoughts was speeding up, turning hard and clear, like sand under white-hot flame. Turning – not into glass. Nothing so fragile.

_How do they make seraph blades?_ He wondered suddenly. That shining crystal, the moon-sickle edge sharp enough to shear molecules – that was what he felt his mind becoming.

"It's just a guess, but it seems likely."

Simon wasn't the only one changing: Jace shifted like a combination puzzle, snapping into something leonine and predatory as he came on red alert. _Good,_ Simon thought fiercely. He needed – Clary needed – the Shadowhunter now, not the blonde flirt. A different persona, for Jace, a mask or a part he played – or just a different facet of his core? "There's just one more thing," the blonde said. Calmly enough, if you couldn't see the glitter in his eyes. "Where's their lair?"

"Their what?"

"The vampires' lair. That's where they went, isn't it?"

"I would imagine so." Suddenly, Magnus looked distinctly skittish.

"I need you to tell us where it is." Jace's voice was icy.

Magnus shook his head. "I'm not setting myself on the bad side of the Night Children for a mundane I don't even know."

"She's worth just as much as you!" Simon snapped. "She's a living, breathing – an artist – she _matters_! Maybe she doesn't have eyes like a cat or magic tattoos – "

"They're not magical," Jace muttered under his breath.

"Shut up," Simon snarled at him. He looked back at Magnus, his heart pounding. "Being a mundane doesn't make her worthless. She's just as valuable as you."

"I'm afraid I'm not of much particular value," Magnus drawled, gesturing at Jace. "As _they_ see things."

"Yeah, I got that they're the neo-nazis of the Shadow World," Simon said harshly, not looking at the Nephilim beside him. "Racial purity or whatever. But do you want to be as bad as them, or do you want to be worth something where it counts?"

Magnus stared at him, his features completely unreadable. He might have been moulded of wax, for all Simon could read his impassive slitted eyes.

The fierce brightness in Simon's chest flickered, dimming under that stare. "Please," he whispered.

The warlock blinked, once and slowly. "The old Hotel Dumont," he said softly. "Uptown."

Simon let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The light in him flared, like Simiel in the Bone City, like Eärendil. "Thank you," he sighed.

Without answering, Magnus started to close the door. Jace's leg snapped out, wedging it open with his foot.

Magnus' eyes glittered. "What now?"

"Is there a holy place around here?"

The corners of the warlock's mouth curved up. "Good idea. If you're going to take on a lair of vampires by yourself, you'd better pray first." He pointed. "There's a Catholic church down on Diamond Street. Will that do?"

Jace stepped back. "That's – "

The door slammed shut in their faces.

)0(

"Why the hell are we going to a church?" Simon demanded, watching Jace draw out his stele to deal with the padlock on the gate. The church in question waited for them beyond the wrought iron fence, and it did seem to be _waiting_: Simon had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, and it wasn't entirely the worry that someone would notice them breaking and entering. "We need to find Clary!"

"And if we want to get her back, we're going to need weapons." There were no street lamps nearby, and without their neon glow the starlight kissed the colour out of Jace's hair, turned it silver as he worked the lock.

"Then I repeat: what the hell are we doing at a _church?_"

The lock hit the ground with a heavy clank, a half-molten lump of slag. Jace looked smug. "As usual, I'm amazingly good at that."

"_Jace!_"

"I'll show you. Come on."

Wary and impatient, Simon allowed Jace to lead him up to the double front doors. A stone angel looked down at the two boys from a beautiful arch above the doors; he wondered if that was an omen, if the carver had intended it to be a particular angel, if its name was Raziel.

Instead of repeating his trick with the lock, Jace put his stele away, and then laid his palm flat on the door. The moonlight caught on dozens of small white scars on his hand and wrist, tiny snowflakes on his skin. "In the name of the Clave," he said, "I ask entry to this holy place. In the name of the Battle That Never Ends, I ask the use of your weapons. And in the name of the Angel Raziel, I ask your blessings on my mission against the darkness."

A jolt of something electric and terrible and glorious shivered down Simon's spine, burning through his nerves and into his fingertips and toes. The door's latch clicked, and the door swung open smoothly, like a hand gesturing them inside, urging them into the benevolent darkness.

Jace smiled. "After you."

The interior was blessedly cool after the summer heat outside, the quiet stone guarding against the high temperatures as well as, Simon began to suspect, more supernatural threats. He had never actually been inside a church before – his expectations were shaped from scenes in books and films, and to be fair, reality didn't disappoint: pews filled the space in neat rows, leading up to the altar, and in the faint light from outside and the small pyramid of candles glowing against the far wall, he could make out stained-glass windows and smooth stone pillars, reaching up to support a vaulted ceiling.

But it did not for one moment make him feel safe. He reached for Simiel, closing his fingers around it in his pocket.

"What did you mean about the weapons?" he asked, instinctively hushing his voice.

"Up by the altar." Jace walked between the pews, and Simon followed, feeling a twinge of envy for the blonde's sure, confident strides. Jace knew what he was doing, even if Simon didn't. What must it be like, to always know what to do and how to do it? Simon thought he might have sweated blood for an instruction manual to this new reality, and Jace just...lived it, as if the cheat codes were encoded into his DNA.

Jace knelt in front of the altar. About to acidly point out this was no time for praying, Simon bit his tongue: maybe it _was_ time to pray. He still knew almost nothing about Shadowhunters; was it so strange, that a race of people that had come from an angel might be religious? Simon looked away instead, his eyes coming to rest on the slab of granite that was the altar, draped in a blood-red cloth. An elaborately decorated gold screen stood behind it; Simon guessed the little people etched into it were saints and such. Each of them had a golden disc around their head, like a halo.

When he looked back, Jace was running his hands back and forth over the floor like a madman. "What are you _doing?_" Simon hissed.

"Looking for weapons."

Simon stared. "Here?"

"They'd be hidden, usually around the altar. Kept for our use in case of emergencies."

He didn't like that _our_. _I'm not a Shadowhunter. _"Do you guys have some kind of deal with the Catholic Church?" Visions of _The Da Vinci Code_ ran through his head, hysterically. _Christ in a ballet skirt, the Catholics have a conspiracy after all!_

"Not specifically," Jace said absently. "Demons have been on Earth as long as we have. They're all over the world, in their different forms – Greek daemons, Persian _daevas_, Hindu _asuras_, Japanese _oni_. Most belief systems have some method of incorporating both their existence and the fight against them. Shadowhunters cleave to no single religion, and in turn all religions assist us in our battle. I could as easily have gone for help to a Jewish synagogue or a Shinto temple, or – Ah. Here it is."

Intrigued, his mind whirling with the new information – he was determined to get his hands on the Shadowhunter editions of the world's religious texts, as well as finding one of their maps with Idris marked in – Simon knelt down beside Jace as the blonde pointed out one of the stones before the altar. There was a rune marked there.

It didn't light up, the way it probably would have done if this were an anime, but it felt as though it did – it jumped out at him, almost _into_ him, as if it were the only voice he could hear, the only voice speaking normally in a room full of whisperers. Its song spun through him, dust and stone transmuted into a sound that was all silver and bright, a high, pure note at its core that tugged at his heart and stole his breath away. And braided into it, like a band of musicians framing a singer's voice, were other sounds, weaving into an impossible melody: Simon heard-felt clashing metal and the screaming thrill of running in a thunderstorm with lightning overhead; an instrument that was the child of a pounding heartbeat and a war drum; a blazing, glorious flash of sound, like the light of a seraph blade played on steel strings that kissed and bled the fingers; he heard beating wings and a roar that might have been rushing wind or a wordless cry of defiance against the darkness.

"Nephilim," he whispered, naming the song.

Jace glanced at him sharply, but didn't say anything. He took out his stele again and gently touched it to the rune.

A low, grinding noise emanated from beneath the floor. As the door had, the stone opened, a panel sliding aside to reveal a long wooden box fitted snugly into a hidden compartment. Without hesitation Jace lifted the lid, and seemed supremely satisfied with what he found there.

"You weren't kidding about the weapons," Simon said faintly, stunned.

Jace grinned at him. "Vials of holy water, blessed knives, steel and silver blades..." He pointed each one out to Simon, withdrawing several of each and laying them on the floor. "Electrum wire – not much use at the moment, but it's always good to have some spare – silver bullets, charms of protection, crucifixes, stars of David – "

"Christ."

"I doubt he'd fit."

Simon snorted a laugh. "And here I thought you might be religious. I should have known better. You're too irreverent for even _divine_ authority, aren't you?"

Jace grinned back at him, but then subsided. "It's true. I'm not really a believer."

"Any particular reason?"

Jace looked up from examining a vial of the holy water. "Is there any particular reason to _believe?_"

Simon shrugged. "You guys come from angels. Or believe you do. And..." He gestured at the weapons.

"Ah." Jace tucked the vial away in a pocket. "You mean if there's this," he pointed down, presumably at the idea of Hell, "there should be this." He pointed up at the ceiling.

"If there are demons, there ought to be angels as well. Otherwise it's just..." _Unfair._ But that wasn't a reason you could give, in real life. Not if you wanted the universe to pay attention, anyway.

Jace picked up a knife and tossed it absently, plucking it out of the air again with practised ease. "I'll tell you something. I've been killing demons for a third of my life. I must have sent five hundred of them back to whatever hellish dimension they crawled out of. And in all that time – in _all _that time – I've never seen an angel. Never even heard of anyone who has."

"I've never heard of anyone who's seen the dark side of the moon, either," Simon said glibly, just to play Devil's Advocate. Which was somewhat ironic, considering the topic of conversation. "That doesn't mean it's not real."

Jace gave him a look that skilfully conveyed just how unimpressed he was with that argument. But then it faded, softly dissolving into something...something Simon had never seen on a teenager's face before. An expression that looked too old for Jace's features.

"Let me put it this way," the blonde said tonelessly, carefully sliding a pair of knives into his belt. He dipped his head, casting that unnerving expression into shadow. "My father believed in a righteous God. _Deus volt_, that was his motto – 'because God wills it.' It was the Crusaders' motto, and they went out to battle and were slaughtered, just like my father. And when I saw him lying dead in a pool of his own blood, I knew then that I hadn't stopped believing in God. I'd just stopped believing God cared. There might be a God, Simon, and there might not, but I don't think it matters. Either way, we're on our own."

A cup of silence slammed down over Simon, like a spider caught under a glass. Jace didn't seem to notice anything wrong – he continued to arm himself from the treasure chest of sharp things – but Simon felt his heart stop, as surely as if Jace had taken up one of those knives and pushed it into Simon's chest.

He opened his mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say. He only knew – in the way that he knew up from down and dark from light – that he couldn't let Jace's words be the final say on the matter.

He swallowed, and tried to imagine what his mom would say, if she were here. Tried to mimic her crisp, matter-of-fact tone, the one she used when Simon was at his lowest and hugs and hot chocolate weren't working. "Bullshit."

Jace's head snapped up, startled. "What?"

Simon licked his lips, his chest tight. "We're" _you're_ "not on our own. You idiot," he added, because he felt like a Hallmark card and even supremely mature young men like himself felt awkward parroting Hallmark-worthy mottos. "I don't know if there are angels or God or whatever. But even if there isn't, you've still got Alec and Isabelle, don't you? And – and Hodge. And Alec's parents, when they get back from Idris."

_And me_. He almost said it – the words nearly tripped off his tongue, but he bit them back at the last moment, with a horrified flush of embarrassment.

"Almost nobody's ever really _alone_," he managed. His cheeks felt hot. Could Jace see if he blushed, in this dimness? "Maybe there's no God. But maybe – maybe we don't need one. As long as we have people who care about us, we can look after each other without divine assistance." He swallowed awkwardly. "You know?"

Even in the dark, Simon could make out the intensity of Jace's gaze – it had an almost tangible weight on his skin. The Nephilim's eyes burned like embers, but for the life of him, Simon had no idea what Jace was thinking.

The loud _bang!_ of the chest slamming shut nearly gave Simon a heart attack. "Let's get going," Jace ordered, getting to his feet, and this time Simon didn't argue.

)0(

The train journey uptown took place in silence. Simon tried not to spend the time thinking of all the ways a vampire could hurt a mouse, and failed: he felt sicker with every passing moment. Every once in a while Jace glanced over at him, as if about to speak, but he always caught himself and swallowed whatever he might have said.

It took them an hour, once they left the subway, to find the hotel Magnus had spoken of. The night air was muggy with heat, plastering Simon's shirt to his skin, but he felt cold somewhere down deep. Simiel was cool and dry against his palm, and Simon reminded himself that he'd killed a Forsaken with it – that he'd killed a Ravener, too. But he'd read and watched enough to know that before _Vampire Diaries _(which predated _Twilight_ by a good few years, thanks very much, and was the original vampire-boy-in-high-school story as far as Simon knew) vampires were deeply terrifying monsters, not angsty whiners with a glittery skin condition. Those stories had to have come from somewhere, right?

He had a feeling killing Lestat would be a lot harder than taking out a Forsaken. But surely if Jace had thought there would be rampage and murder involved, he'd have brought Alec and Isabelle with them...?

The world was asleep, with the run-down menace of a thug pointedly saying _and we'd like to keep it that way, thanks. _Simon was all too happy to leave the inhabitants of the Laundromats and bodegas fast asleep – he doubted they'd be happy to be woken by a pair of teenage vampire hunters, or particularly sympathetic to their plight. _Excuse me, miss, but have you seen a small brown mouse...?_

They actually walked past the hotel twice. Simon was drawn taut as a wire by the time he finally spotted the sign and pointed it out to Jace; the thing was dangling behind a stunted tree, half-obscured by skeletal branches. HOTEL DUMONT, it should have said, but someone had painted a red R over the N.

"Hotel Dumort," Jace said dryly. "Cute."

Simon frowned at him.

Jace caught the look. "It's French," he explained. "_Du mort_ – it means 'of death'."

"...Under the circumstances, that's not very reassuring." Simon's stomach churned, taking in the boarded-up windows. The door had been bricked over, too. The Hotel Dumont had probably been beautiful once upon a time – the stone facade was carved with swirls and flowers that had seen too much exposure to the elements – but the Hotel Dumort was a mess. _Well, at least we don't have to worry about Lestat. The Brat Prince wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this..._ "How do we get in?"

"We break and enter."

Simon paused a moment to watch Jace move towards the hotel. There was an aura of excitement about him, an almost visible, excited intensity shimmering like heat-haze around the blonde. Simon suddenly remembered the way Jace had laughed in the fight with the Forsaken, battle-drunk like the ancient Viking berserkers. _Like Achilles_, he thought, with a lurch. _Golden and unkillable and glorious..._

"Stay out of the light," Jace instructed, his voice pitched to carry only so far as Simon caught up with him. "They might be watching from the windows. And don't look up," he added, just as Simon caught a glance of the broken, fragmented windows of the upper floors. And hastily dropped his eyes to the pavement, wondering if he'd really seen what he'd thought he'd seen – a flicker, a ghost in one naked windowframe –

"Come _on_." Jace grabbed Simon's sleeve and pulled him into the shadows. Belatedly, he noticed Simon's glow-bracelets. "By the Angel, get _rid_ of those!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Simon clawed them off, and the necklace with them. He hurriedly stuffed them all into a pocket, sick with nerves and hope and dread. His pulse beat staccato in his wrists; he wondered what the sound of it would look like as a rune, and what it would be called. _Scared shitless, probably._

Jace led them around the corner, his black Shadowhunter boots soundless on the grimy pavement. Simon felt huge and disgustingly loud in comparison, and he clutched Simiel tightly for reassurance as they entered what had probably once been a delivery lane for the hotel. Like the Dumont it had fallen into disrepair; it stank of garbage and urine, the narrow space clogged with beer cans, bottles, plastic bags, cardboard boxes, and even a shopping cart, missing three wheels and propped forlornly against a trio of trash cans.

Something crunched under Simon's foot, and he bit back a yelp. And then swallowed his own lungs when he saw _what_ had crunched.

"Bones." Jace poked through a pile of them with the toe of his boot, impassive. "Dog bones, cat bones. Don't look too closely; going through vampires' trash is rarely a pretty picture."

Simon swallowed. _What about mouse bones? _"Yeah, I got that, thanks." He tried to look for rodent skeletons, but Jace kept them moving, past bricked-up windows and smooth walls unbroken by the faintest sign of a door.

"When this was a hotel," Jace murmured, "they must have gotten their deliveries here. I mean, they wouldn't have brought things through the front door, and there's no place else for trucks to pull up. So there must be a way in."

Simon pulled Simiel out of his pocket. He didn't call the blade by name, and he hid the hilt's silvery glow between his fingers, but squeezing it made him feel better. Made it easier to breathe, and think, and ignore the sick, spicy fear curdling his gut. "In the ground," he said softly. He pictured the trucks that pulled up outside the little shops and bodegas in Brooklyn, early in the morning as he and Clary walked to the subway for school. "The delivery doors – they're in the ground."

Jace nodded and sighed. "That's what I was thinking." He gave the assorted mess the stink-eye. "I guess we'd better move the trash. We can start with the Dumpster." He pointed.

Simon snorted at the look on his face. "You would rather face the hordes of Hell, wouldn't you?"

"At least they wouldn't be crawling with maggots. Well," Jace added thoughtfully, "not most of them, anyway. There was this one demon, once, that I tracked down to the sewers under Grand Central – "

"For Sephiroth's sake, stop right there." Simon, his lips twitching despite themselves, held up a hand to cut him off. "I'm not in the mood."

Jace raised a sculpted eyebrow, smirking. "That's got to be the first time anybody's ever said that to me."

"I promise, stick with me and it won't be the last."

Jace's mouth twitched. "This is hardly the time for idle banter. We have garbage to haul."

"Don't remind me," Simon muttered as Jace moved over to the Dumpster and grabbed one side of it.

If Jace heard, he ignored him. "You get the other. We'll tip it."

Simon didn't move. "And wake up everyone inside?" he asked, waving his hand at the hotel. "Don't be an idiot. We should push it." He paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose as the insaneness of their exchange settled into him. "I'm out hunting vampires, and we're arguing about how to move garbage," he said under his breath. "How the _hell_ do these things happen to me?"

"Now look – " Jace started, but a voice slid out of the darkness behind them, smooth and cool and amused.

"Do you really think you should be doing that?"

Simon found himself abruptly facing the other way, with no memory of moving or of drawing Simiel, but his lips automatically shaped the blade's name in a whisper and the knife snapped out like a basilisk tooth. Jace stood frozen, raw surprise on his face, which scared Simon more than a mysterious voice: how often did anything manage to sneak up on him, and what did it say that this thing had?

The blonde's hand fell to his belt, his voice flat. "Is there someone there?"

"_Dios mío._" Male, amused, and – to Simon's inexperienced ear – a native Spanish speaker. "You're not from this neighbourhood, are you?"

A figure stepped out of the thickest shadows as if stepping out of a cloak. In the darkness, Simon's eyes took him in slowly. The speaker was a boy, around Simon and Jace's age and about five inches shorter than Simon; he was slender, with a delicate bone structure that should have looked feminine, but didn't. It _did_ make him almost stunningly good-looking, especially in combination with the open-necked white shirt revealing a tantalising slice of his honey-gold skin. A gold chain glinted around his throat: Simon remembered the bronze necklace Jace had worn in his dream, and blinked.

"You could say that." Jace's hand didn't leave his belt, and whatever weapons he had stowed there. Simon didn't put Simiel away, either.

"You shouldn't be here." The boy drew a hand through his thick black curls. "This place is dangerous."

_No shit. _Simiel wasn't glowing, for once. Why? Because it, like Simon, was worried this stranger was a mun – not a Downworlder, and didn't want to give itself away as something magical? Could seraph blades think? _There_ was a disturbing question.

But it was a bit too damn coincidental that somebody would stop and warn off a pair of strangers. That wasn't how bad neighbourhoods worked – was it? People _didn't _stop if you got in trouble. And – they were right outside a vampire hotel.

_And_, what kind of non-Downworlder could have snuck up on them without Jace noticing?

Simiel lit up with crystalline fire.

The boy glanced at it with wide eyes, but his surprise took just a breath too long to settle over his face. "What is _that?_"

Jace moved so that his jacket fell open a little; Simiel's light fell on the weapons thrust through his belt. "How much are they paying you to keep people away from the hotel?"

Jace hadn't quite reasoned out as far as Simon had. "Jace," Simon said softly, but the Shadowhunter – probably sensibly – didn't take his eyes off the stranger.

Who glanced behind him. Simon chilled, unwillingly picturing the mouth of the alleyway blocked by more vampires – clotted with them like a wound, corpse-white with splinters behind their lips. Simiel flared brighter, and the stranger glanced at it as he turned back to them. "How much are who paying me, _chico?_"

"The vampires," Jace said. "How much are they paying you? Or is it something else – did they tell you they'd make you one of them? Offer you eternal life, with no pain, no sickness, you get to live forever? Because it's not worth it. Life stretches out a very long time when you never see the sunlight, _chico_."

"My name is Raphael. Not _chico_," was the boy's only response.

_And he's already a vampire_, Simon thought. What was that supposed to make him feel? Should the Nephilim blood in his veins make him hate Raphael, for what he was? If it was supposed to, it wasn't working. Simon didn't even feel afraid; only cold, cold and clear as snow-melt water over glass. Simiel sang against his palm, singing to the bones in his hand, and he heard the blade's Marks: the rustle of wings whose feathers were steel and gold, a scream loud and high enough to shatter mirrors and eardrums, starlight played on windchimes, the _hiss_ of a match catching in a dark room and the _drip_ of blood on a stone floor. Or maybe tears.

"We're looking for a friend of mine," he heard himself say. "The vampires took her. We're here to get her back."

Raphael pointed at the hotel behind them. "There were some boys, once, a group of friends. They thought they had a good idea, to go into the hotel and kill the monsters inside. They took guns with them, knives too – all blessed by a priest. They never came out. My aunt, she found their clothes later, in front of the house."

"Your aunt's house?" Jace asked.

"_Sí_. One of the boys was my brother," Raphael said bluntly. "And so I walk by here in the middle of the night sometimes, on the way home from my aunt's house – to warn people like you away. If your friend is gone, then she is gone. Remember her, weep for her, but do not follow her into the dark also."

Jace smiled, the curve of it so sharp and wicked that Simon wanted to bite it. "Don't worry. What happened to your friends won't happen to us." He drew an angel blade from his belt to match Simon's; like Simiel, it glowed, with a silvery, wavery light like sunlight on the bottom of a pool. "I've killed plenty of vampires before. Their hearts don't beat, but they still die."

Raphael glanced between Jace and Simon, inhaling sharply. "Then I want to go with you."

Jace jerked his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"I can show you how to get inside!"

Jace hesitated, plainly tempted. Simon's heart raced, trying to think of a way to warn Jace against Raphael. But there didn't seem to be any way of doing that without alerting the vampire that Simon was on to him.

But he didn't need to. "We can't bring you," Jace said finally, and Simon suppressed a sigh of relief.

Raphael shrugged. "Fine." Instantly Simon felt his hackles rise, suspicious and wary of the boy's easy capitulation. He gripped Simiel tightly as Raphael stalked past him and kicked at a pile of trash near the wall of the alley, ready to – what?

_What will you do if he turns on you?_

_Whatever I have to,_ he told the voice without hesitation._ They have Clary._

Raphael stepped back, sweeping his hand to show them the newly revealed metal grating. The bars were covered in brown-red rust – _or blood_, Simon thought – and he only had a moment to examine them before Raphael knelt down, heedless of the rubbish, and lifted the grating away. "This is how my brother and his friends got in," he told them. "It goes down to the basement, I think."

A thin smile, like the wound left by a thin blade, formed at the corners of Jace's lips. The light from the seraph blade he held cast eerie shadows over his face. "Thanks," he said to Raphael. "This will work just fine."

_It's a God-damn trap!_

"You go in there," Raphael said to Jace, "and do for your friend what I could not do for my brother."

_No._ Jace sheathed the blade at his belt, and Simon opened his mouth to speak, because forget about warning Raphael, Simon _could not_ let them walk into an ambush. That was the kind of stupendous idiocy that lent itself to disaster.

But Jace said, "Follow me," and vanished into the dark space of the grate feet first. It swallowed him up in an instant and Simon nearly cried out a protest, his ears straining for sounds of pain or attack.

Instead there was just the smooth, soft _thump _of feet landing easily on solid ground. "It's fine," Jace called up softly. "Jump down and I'll catch you."

_Like a damsel in distress? _Simon glanced warily at Raphael, unwilling to give the vampire his back. Simiel's light licked over Raphael's skin, touching a small scar at the boy's throat as if with a finger. As if the seraph blade were saying _look_.

_I see it,_ Simon thought at his weapon. A tiny cross shape. So crosses really did burn vampires.

"Simon, come on!" Jace hissed.

Simon swallowed. Raphael held out a hand, but Simon ignored it. _This is really fucking stupid,_ he thought helplessly – and dropped himself down over the edge before he could psych himself out of it.

He was braced for a much longer fall, and despite Jace's promise, he had not expected the other boy to actually catch him. When hands reached out from the dark and snatched him out of the air his lizard brain had Simiel flashing for those wrists before he recognised them, before he felt callused fingers on the skin of his waist below his rucked-up shirt and saw gold eyes turned dark in Simiel's witchlight.

Jace let him go nearly instantly. "You all right?"

"I'm fine." His pulse beat against the insides of his wrists.

Jace once again drew his seraph blade. Between it and Simiel, the soft light illuminated their surroundings: a small concrete space that did indeed seem to be an old basement. Vines crawled up some of the cracked walls, and patches of dirt showed through the broken-up floor. There was dust everywhere: Simon wondered if he should be worrying about leaving tracks in it.

A loud, now-familiar _thump_ sounded behind them. Simon whirled to see Raphael caught in mid-landing, his knees bent to absorb the impact. He straightened up even as they watched, grinning wickedly.

Simon's heart nearly stopped at the sight of that grin. _This is it, this is where he makes his play –_

"I told you – " Jace hissed furiously.

"And I heard you." Raphael waved his hand dismissively. "What are you going to do about it? I can't get back out the way we came in, and you can't just leave me here for the dead to find...can you?"

"I'm thinking about it," Jace muttered.

Raphael pointed. "We must go that way, toward the stairs. They are up on the higher floors of the hotel. You will see." He pushed past Jace and through the narrow doorway waiting where he had pointed. Jace shook his head, looking as though he was wondering how it had all gotten so out of hand.

"I'm really starting to hate mundanes."

Simon glanced after Raphael's vanishing back. How good was vampire hearing? Didn't matter – this was probably his only chance. "Never mind that," he whispered urgently. "Listen – Raphael's a vampire!"

Jace blinked at him. For a second, Simon thought he looked impressed, but then the moment was gone, replaced by a blank, professional coolness. "I know," he said.


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you to all the WONDERFUL people who commented on the last (and all the previous!) chapters. You guys have no idea how much each comment/review makes my day. I hope all of you, commenters and lurkers, enjoy this one as much as I did writing it!

* * *

"You _know?_" Simon hissed. "Then what the Hell are you doing trusting him?"

Jace grinned, wicked and wild. "First rule of an ambush: surprise," he said. "They can't ambush us if we're expecting it."

Simon had said nearly the exact same thing to him, outside Dorothea's apartment. He finally understood why Jace had been so frustrated with him then. "_Are you insane?"_ Simon demanded, only just remembering to keep his voice to a low, furious whisper.

"It has been suggested to me," Jace allowed. "I prefer to think of myself as an unappreciated genius."

"You're an unappreciated _something_," Simon muttered. The thought of walking into a trap curdled in his stomach – but then, what choice did they have? Clary was in here somewhere – turning around and going back wasn't an option. _Pretend it's a video game_, he told himself, and let out a short hiss of breath. "Fine. Let's catch him up."

_Just a video game. Like the Forsaken was._

_NOT._

Without another word, the two of them walked quickly after Raphael. He had paused a little way into the next room, waiting for them, and Simon hoped nervously that the vampire hadn't been able to hear their whispers. He rubbed his thumb over Simiel's hilt, trying to allow himself to be reassured by the coolness of the crystal, by the sensation of having something solid to depend on, and used the seraph blade to illuminate the dim corners. Over and over in his mind, he imagined snarling creatures with bloodstained mouths leaping out at them from the shadows. Every empty storage room was an entrance to Tartarus, the abandoned kitchen was stocked with rust-stained weapons of death – even the laundry room, drowned in dust and mould, could have provided hiding places for enterprising vampires, with its piles of rotting linen towels and stacked laundry baskets. The tension wound tighter and tighter in Simon's gut and throat with every step, as if his adrenalin had been spiked with cocaine. It got to the point that Simon almost wanted to scream into the dark for the vampires to _come and get me already!_, just to get it over with.

Simiel grew brighter and brighter in his hand, driving the shadows away. _Look, it's safe, there's nothing there. _Simon could almost hear the blade's voice, soft and soothing. _Don't be afraid._

_Not yet._

Jace glanced at Simon's knife with an unreadable expression, but he didn't tell Simon to put it away. Not even when the corridor was lit almost as brightly as it must have been years ago, when it was full of people working, carrying clean sheets and covered plates to the guests upstairs...

Speaking of stairs: there weren't any. They found four staircases that should have led upstairs, but they were gone. Not rotted away like so much else in this crypt of a hotel, but torn down by deliberate hands.

"_Cloud's unholy angst_, what do vampires have against stairs?" Simon snapped in exasperation when they found the fourth destroyed staircase.

"Ssh," Raphael hissed. "They will hear you."

Simon glared at him.

"They don't have anything against stairs," Jace whispered, his breath curling warmly against Simon's ear, and Simon's aborted jump of surprise at the unexpected proximity melted into a shiver. "They just don't need them."

Simon swallowed, and caught Raphael watching them, a speculative frown resting lightly on his face. He smiled when he saw Simon looking, and turned back to the search for a working staircase.

They finally found one, hidden behind the second laundry room. Dust lay on the steps like a second carpet, unmarked by footprints, and Simon wondered if Jace had meant that vampires could fly. Whether they did or not, the stairs seemed sound – they didn't even creak as the three boys made their way up them, which Simon considered a minor miracle. He was grateful for it – he thought his strained nerves might have snapped completely if their every step had been announced by a haunted-house _creeeeeeeak._

_When all this is over, I'm going to commit myself to the psych ward and have a nice holiday, with lovely drugs and straitjackets and white walls. And sunshine. And no demonic thingies ANYWHERE. _

The door at the top of the stairs announced LOBBY in faded gilt, and when Jace pushed it open the hinges showered flakes of rust onto the floor. Simon held Simiel out in front of him, taut and ready –

But there was nothing. The foyer they stepped into was empty, a gutted mess of torn carpet and crystal fragments from a shattered chandelier, its crippled arms reaching sadly from where it lay cast-aside on the floor. Once upon a time a double staircase, the kind that bore princesses down to their waiting princes, had half-filled the room with gilt and red velvet; now it ended in mid-air halfway up its length, leaving a wide empty space between the last step and the second floor. Looking at it, Simon felt a chill run down his spine, like a ghost's fingertip skimming over his vertebrae.

_This is not a human place._

"Where are they?" Simon whispered. The heavy silence weighed on them, muffling every sound, and he thought it again: _this is not a place for my kind, for any breathing thing. _

"Upstairs, probably," Jace murmured. "They like to be high up when they sleep, like bats. And it's nearly sunrise."

Simon glanced up instinctively, but there were no Vanhelsing-esque bat-monsters hanging from the ceiling by their feet, only a blackened fresco, smeared with dirt and ash. All in all, he preferred the fresco.

"You're going to have to call out to Clary and hope she can hear you," Jace pointed out quietly.

Simon swallowed. _And all the vampires too. _Raphael might not have heard his and Jace's whispers, but no way would anyone miss him shouting loud enough for Clary to hear. "Right," he whispered. "I – "

A scream shattered the silence. Simon snapped around and Raphael was gone, vanished, without the slightest scuff in the dust to show where he'd gone.

"Move!" Jace snarled, wrenching at Simon's shoulder, and Simon stumbled after him, Simiel clenched tightly in his fist. The archway in the far wall gaped like a kraken's mouth and the boys flung themselves through it, but the darkness beyond had no chance to swallow them: Simiel _blazed_, a star caught in crystal like an insect in amber, and a hundred gilt-framed mirrors sent the blade's light flashing back at them. Simon had a confused impression of cracked white marble beneath his feet and rust-kissed balconies curving above his head before he spotted Raphael.

Between one step and the next, Jace flung a knife. It slammed into Raphael's chest and the vampire went down, but Simon didn't stop to watch: a flurry of motion in the corner of his eyes and he was staring, the pit of his stomach dropping away as he saw rank after rank of corpse-white creatures filing onto the balconies on all sides, red mouths like wounds and eyes dead as glass staring back at him with something so far beyond mere amusement that there were no human words for it.

_Oh yeah, Jace. As long as we KNOW there's an ambush coming, we have no problem. None whatsoever. _

If they got out of this alive, Simon was going to kill the cocky blonde bastard. And then bring him back to life and _kill him again._

_Do not think about how you might actually die. Do not think about it. Do not think about it. Do not –_

Jace lunged for the prone Raphael, but the vampire was already sitting up, with a smooth, graceful motion that had abandoned all pretences of mortality. He grabbed hold of the knife in his chest – and screamed, a high, piercing shriek that was as much fury as pain. He ripped the blade out of himself and hurled it away, and its cross-shaped hilt caught and sparked in Simiel's light. Blood soaked Raphael's white shirt, and a part of Simon thought _so vampires bleed. Huh. _

Jace reached Raphael and hauled him upright with a hand in the bloodstained shirt. His seraph blade – Sanvi, Simon remembered inanely – turned Raphael's dark eyes white with reflected light.

"You missed," Raphael laughed, all traces of agony wiped away. He grinned up at Jace, baring sickle-sharp teeth. "You missed my heart."

Sanvi moved to Raphael's chest. "I won't a second time," he said softly, and Raphael fell silent.

Simon cleared his throat. "Um, Jace? We kind of have company." The crowd of vampires made him think of a pack of cats watching a pair of mice.

"I know." Jace didn't look away from Raphael. He was holding himself almost violently still, if stillness could be violent, and without making a single move Simon could suddenly read the pattern of Jace's quick pants, could hear it like a song and knew it like music – understood, sharply, just how badly Jace wanted to shove Sanvi through the vampire's heart.

Glancing at the taut, trembling tension running through the gathered vampires, Simon guessed that killing Raphael would be a _very bad idea_. Their lair-mate's fate seemed to be the only thing holding back the dark tide of them.

Jace made no move, which suggested that he'd worked out the same thing. But he also made no move to speak, to take control of the situation, and Simon was going to kill him _multiple times _when this was over.

"Okay, look," he said loudly before he could stop himself. "Sorry for not using the doorbell, but you don't have one, and also, you have a friend of ours here. We'd like her back."

A murmur of laughter ran through the vampires. "So? You think to bargain with us?"

The voice came from a balcony behind him. Before Simon could turn to answer it another vampire spoke, this time in his line of sight; an Asian girl with blue hair, exceptionally pretty. Did vampirism make people pretty, like in the _Twilight_ books, or did only good-looking people get offered immortality? "Shadowhunters trespassing on our territory," she hissed. "They are out of the protection of the Covenant. I say we kill them – they have killed enough of ours."

This time the murmur was one of agreement. It was like drowning – the weight of the fear that slammed down on him left Simon dizzy and sick and unable to breathe.

"Which of you is the master of this place?" Jace asked, his voice utterly bland. "Let him step forward."

Again, that shivery, inhuman laughter, rippling through the crowd although Simon saw no one's lips move. "Do not use Clave language on us, Shadowhunter," the blue-haired girl said. "You have broken your precious Covenant, coming here. The Law will not protect you."

"Your friend here will be dead before you get over that balcony," Jace said softly.

The girl shrugged. "One vampire for two Shadowhunters. A bargain."

Two Shadowhunters and Clary, wherever she was. _I cannot die here. Clary – mom – I can't fail them, I can't – _

Movement, like the ripple of a shoal about to change direction; a handful of vampires swung out to perch on the balcony rails like birds and a few went still further, dropping down like fallen angels through the air and landing on the floor in cat-like crouches. One of them hissed and then they were all doing it, the sound sweeping to engulf the room, stabbing directly into his lizard brain as more and more of them plunged from the balconies and the fear – it didn't snap him into anger, or any kind of Limit Break. It _broke_ him, the panic and ice-cold terror too much to hold and it shattered out of him, a glass bottle forced too full and the shards snowstormed through his head and Simon _screamed_ and a supernova exploded from his hand, the searing white light of a nuclear bomb and a hundred, _hundreds_ of other voices screaming as everything went white and light and blind –

He saw two alien music notes in his head, heard the mirrors shatter under the force of the light and there, two notes overlapping like a Venn diagram, together making up Simiel's song; one sharp and jagged and familiar from its place on Jace's arm, _angelic power_, the sound of wings whose feathers were steel and gold; the other sweet and unfamiliar, breathtaking-breath stopping, the sigil of it sinuous and strong but he couldn't quite _hear it_ over the screaming –

The light cut off, plunging them all into darkness. The screams stopped a breath later, and with a shudder Simon's legs gave out from under him. Simiel clattered onto the floor with a sound like ice on ice as Simon fell onto his hands and knees, gasping for air, shaking so hard that he thought he would come apart at the seams. He felt weak as a kitten, like the aftermath of a fever, and his throat burned fiercely.

_What in Enma's name _was_ that?_

_Did I do that?_

His ears were full of echoes. He blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Sanvi was glimmering still, rippling like back-lit water. Its glow caressed Jace's cheekbones, painting shadows and silver over his face.

There was something terrifyingly close to awe in Jace's expression. Something like amazement, and pride, and it was like alchemy; like a lit match dropping onto a pool of oil Simon caught fire, his confusion burning up in a wild rush of proud excitement.

_That was so incredibly cool!_

Belatedly, he realised that Jace was no longer holding Raphael; the vampire had been blown some distance away by the blast, a barely-visible shadow on the floor. The dark shape groaned, and Simon jumped, his heart racing again. When he stretched his hand out for Simiel – he could have _sworn _the seraph blade moved, just an inch or two, sliding against his fingers like iron filings drawn to a magnet, but there wasn't time, Simon sensed, to check; he snatched up the knife and pushed himself up off the floor, feeling the rush of whatever he'd done spin into something hard and cold and glittering as he stood up. Straw into steel.

"The only bargain you're getting today," he said loudly, and the whispers and whimpers stopped dead at the sound of his voice, "is your lives for our friend."

"We don't have anyone here!" Someone cried. She sounded panicked. _Good_, Simon thought, frosty and sharp. _They have Clary. They _should _be afraid of us. _"We don't have your friend!"

"She's a mouse," Jace said. He moved to stand closer to Simon; the glow of their seraph blades mingled and kissed. "At the moment."

A silence.

"You're doing all this for a mouse?"

Jace smiled. "Does it matter why we're doing it, so long as we don't do it again?"

"Don't." Another voice, this one choking on a sob. "Please – please don't do it again."

Simon felt a quiver of guilt, a curl of uncertainty, but he forced it down. _Clary. _

"The mouse," he said coldly.

"H-here." Someone else, and Simon heard slow, deliberate footsteps, as if the vampire wanted to make sure Simon and Jace heard him coming. "I – I'm sorry. I th-thought she was Zeke."

A figure took shape out of the shadows, slowly. Beside Simon Jace raised Sanvi warningly, and the vampire cringed. He was a slender African American boy, his hair falling in dreadlocks around his face, and as he tentatively came closer Simon saw that he had something in his hands.

"Clary?" he whispered.

The little shape squeaked, and Simon's heart leapt. "Clary!"

Before he could reach for her, Raphael – forgotten on the floor – sprang. With a savage hiss he snatched Clary from the black vampire's hands, and despite his fear for Clary Simon recoiled, bile burning his throat as he caught a glimpse of Raphael's face in Sanvi's light: it was all seared flesh and charred skin, sickening and terrible, the face of a nightmare, and it slammed into Simon's mind with all the blunt force of a hammer blow. _I did that_, he thought with growing horror, _I did that to another person – that light, it _burnt _him –_

_All of them –_

But the black vampire wasn't burned – had he been protected from the blast by his friends, maybe? Raphael had been closer –

"Give her back, Raphael," Jace snapped fiercely, and Simon came back to himself with a jolt.

_Clary._

"I think not." Raphael's voice – it was sandpaper-rough, his words edged in gravel and slate. Clary thrashed, squeaking fiercely in his tight grip, and Simon panicked: if he squeezed too tight...She was only a _mouse_, he could break her so easily – ! "Something so valuable should not be given away for free, little Nephilim. Even one such as you should know that."

Panic. Fear. Fury. Simon didn't look, but Raphael and Clary became more visible as Simiel began to brighten again, and this time Simon didn't flinch at the torched mincemeat that was the vampire's face. The other vampire, with the dreadlocks, hurriedly lunged back into the shadows. "Give her back," Simon said softly. The same voice that had snarled when striking down the Forsaken warrior; the same one that had offered the vampires their lives for Clary. Later, he would be shocked that he had that voice in him; later he would be scared. But right now Simiel was cool crystal under his fingers and Clary needed him and Simon wanted to burn Raphael to _ash _for daring to lay a finger on her.

It was impossible to read Raphael's expression. He didn't have one: his face seeped plasma, all cooked muscle and destroyed skin. But even as Simon watched, Raphael seemed to be healing, fresh new skin crawling over the gaping charred holes. Like silk over rot. "Now why would I do that?" His eyes, at least, were whole, unmarred and gleaming. "You think we do not hear the rumours, the news that is running through the Downworld like blood through veins? Valentine is back. There will be no Accords and no Covenant soon enough. What reason do I have to listen to _you?_"

Simon felt his lips curve, sweet and sharp as ice. "You know, from what I hear of the Accords, they protect you guys too. Without them..." He pointed at Jace with his free hand. "He has to catch you to kill you." His hand fell. "I don't." He had no idea if he could call the burning light again, but there was no reason to let them know that.

"Give them the mouse, Raphael!" A girl's voice. On another day Simon would have felt sick about hearing such desperation in a girl's voice, and knowing he had been the one to put it there. Right now he only hoped Raphael heard it too. "Make them go away!"

Raphael hesitated.

And howled with pain. Clary fell from his hands and darted towards Jace and Simon, who automatically swooped to scoop her up in a rush of elated relief.

"Clary," he breathed.

"She bit me." Raphael sounded stunned. Blood dripped from his burnt hand and Simon laughed, running quick fingers over Clary's fur to make sure she was all right. She seemed to be.

Even Jace was amused. "Don't mess with the mouse," he grinned at Raphael, and the vampire's face contorted with rage.

He threw himself at Jace with a roar. Sanvi flashed and Simon froze, torn between protecting Clary and going to Jace's aid for just a heartbeat too long.

"Help me!" Raphael shrieked. It was so dark – he and Jace were struggling shadows, Titans wrestling in the dark of Tartarus with only Sanvi for a star between them. "Kill them both – and the mouse too!"

_Fuck._ Simon clutched Clary tightly against his chest. _Fuck, fuck, not this again –_ Surely the vampires wouldn't be stupid enough to actually _listen _to Raphael, not after what had happened the first time – ?

Someone crashed into him from behind and, okay, apparently some of them _were_ stupid enough. Simon went down under the weight, only panicked desperation fuelling him to twist mid-fall so he landed on his side instead of on Clary. A sharp razor of pain slashed across his shoulder and he yelled, astounded by the pain: Simiel's light burst through his fingers like pearly water and there was another burning line carved across his upper back and Simon thought of broken necks, of paralysis and broken-glass teeth and Jace saying _accept that you're going to get hurt_.

_Pain is water and you are diamond. _

Simon twists around with a snarl, lashing out with his seraph blade and Clary is squeaking and the vampire at his back cries out, vanishing away in a blur of shadow and the smoke rising from his skin. The rucksack digs into Simon's back and he doesn't dare try and get Clary into it in case he lands on it but he rushes to his feet, _you are diamond you are diamond you are diamond _and the darkness is full of flitting shapes and he can smell blood and smoke and dust and Simiel grows brighter and brighter and _how dare you, how do you dare_.

"_Come on!"_ Simon screams, brandishing his knife, his sword, spinning in place to track the vampires that don't quite dare after all and he is diamond, he is fire and magma and sky, he has earthquakes and clockwork inside him and the air is silky-slow against his skin. "_Come and get me!"_

Breaking glass. Simiel's light surged, not quite as blinding as before but almost; Simon caught a glimpse of cobwebbed-adorned chandeliers, faded gilt on the ceiling and dozens of vampires, vampires screaming with gaping red mouths at the monsters coming through the windows, four-legged and furred, streamlined with hard, powerful muscle and their coats gleaming in Simiel's glow. They hit the floor like an avalanche, and the sound they made was a rock-fall, deep and rumbling from all of their throats, and Simon could hardly believe his eyes.

Wolves.

Before he could take a breath they attacked, moving like water, a river of black-brown-russet-sandy gold-grey-white that crashed over the vampires. Simon jerked back, then realised – no. It wasn't an attack. The werewolves (what else could they be?) crashed _through _the vampires, brushing them aside as a river brushes driftwood, but it wasn't an attack.

"HOW DARE YOU ENTER OUR PLACE?" Raphael screamed. He stepped forward, bloodied and dirty but now almost completely whole – his only injuries looked as though they'd been inflicted by Sanvi. He looked about to have an apoplexy.

But – where was Ja –

A hand clapped over his mouth. "Ssh," Jace hissed against his ear, before Simon could finish the thought or shriek. "Be very, very quiet. And still. _Be still_."

He lowered his hand and Simon didn't even shiver, the importance of Jace's mouth so close to him overtaken by the _freaking werewolves._ "The fuck is going on?" he hissed.

"I don't know. Vampires and werewolves – they never come to each other's lairs. Never. The Covenant forbids it." Simon wished he could see Jace's face as he said, "Something must have happened. This is bad. Very bad."

"How can it possibly be any worse than it was a minute ago?" Simon demanded in a whisper.

"Because," Jace said, "we're about to be in the middle of a war."

Simiel's light didn't seem to be burning anyone this time. The ballroom was almost fully illuminated, which meant Simon had no trouble watching the largest wolf pad forward, his grey fur almost exactly the colour of the great white shark his fanged grin reminded Simon of. Between one step and the next, he _changed_ – not the grotesque, visceral transformation of Professor Lupin in _Harry Potter_, but quick and smooth like Sirius Black. Only instead of going from man to dog, the wolf became a tall, thickly muscled human man, with hair the same colour as his fur hanging around his shoulders in a matted mess. Unlike Sirius, he could apparently bring clothes through his change, because he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Simon was grateful for that much mercy.

At least, until the werewolf announced, with a distinctly wolfish grin, "We're not here for a blooding. We came for the boy."

Jace stiffened, and Simon felt ice in the pit of his stomach. "Who?" Raphael asked. It was impressive, really – he managed to be utterly astonished without relinquishing one drop of his anger.

"The human boy." And as Simon had known he would, the werewolf jabbed a blunt finger at him.

Jace swore. "Please tell me this isn't Sebastian," he muttered under his breath.

"What? No! Sebastian's way sexier," Simon said without thinking.

Jace hissed through his teeth instead of laughing. "This is bad."

"You already said that." Simon's voice hitched. Everyone was looking at him – dozens upon dozens of astonished faces, staring at him with complete disbelief.

"It seemed worth repeating."

"You can't have him," Raphael announced decisively. He folded his arms over his chest. "He trespassed on our ground; therefore he's ours."

The werewolf laughed. "I'm _so _glad you said that." Before the words were even all out of his mouth he leapt for Raphael, changing in mid-air; the creature that crashed into Raphael's chest was all wolf, as big as those horse-sized monsters from _Twilight_. Werewolf and vampire smashed to the floor in a tangle of blood and teeth, and inhuman shrieks met and clashed with canine howls as their followers followed suit.

The sound of it – this was _war_, screams and cries and snarls, and Simon heard it, the note for it, a tangled, writhing knot with jagged edges, burning in his head. It made him sick – or maybe that was just the sight and sound of the chaos erupting around them on all sides.

Jace whistled. "Raphael is really having an exceptionally bad night." He sounded pleased.

"Who cares?!" Simon clutched Clary carefully; she was trembling, and no wonder. "Put Clary in my bag, and let's get out of here!"

Jace reached for her, but before he could pick her up Clary leapt. Fearlessly, she jumped from Simon's hands to the floor; Simon swallowed a cry, terrified that she'd hurt herself. But no – she scampered away, dodging and weaving between the monsters doing battle. "Clary!"

"Damned _athumos_," Jace cursed as Simon ran after her, but the Shadowhunter followed them.

"Clary!" Simon shouted, too scared for her to worry about catching Raphael's attention again. "Stop! Come back here, you idiot!"

But she didn't. Instead, she plunged into a pile of rotted velvet curtains, shoved up against a corner. Simon, right behind her, threw himself to his knees and started tearing through the crumbling fabric. "Clary, I will burn every single one of your sketchpads, I swear to _God_ – "

He clawed through the disgusting velvet with one hand and Simiel in the other, frantically searching for her. With an eye-roll, Jace got down and helped, continuously glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on their surroundings. The curtains were slimy with mould, and would have been nauseating at any other time, but Clary was in here somewhere – he could hear her squeaking –

He shoved the last few aside, and found, sitting right next to –

"A door. A door! You _genius_, Clary!"

Even as a mouse, Clary managed to look smug.

Simon swept her up again and cuddled her. Even Jace looked impressed. "That was quick thinking," he allowed.

Simon grinned at him. "You're just sour because the mouse had a better escape plan than you."

Rolling his eyes again, Jace playfully shoved Simon aside. "Get out of the way so I can get this thing open."

The door was locked, of course. Jace threw his shoulder against it, but it didn't so much as creak. He swore, rubbing the bruised joint. "My shoulder will never be the same. I hope you're prepared to nurse me back to health."

"Get us out of here and I'll even wear the costume." Scratching behind her ears gratefully, Simon tucked Clary safely away in the rucksack.

Jace turned to him, his lips parted for a come-back – and his eyes went wide. "Simon – "

Simon turned. They'd been noticed at last; a huge brindled wolf had caught sight of them and was running directly for them, shouldering aside the vampires who tried to deter him. They looked twig-like in comparison, like fragile dolls, and the werewolf didn't even glance at them: his blue-fire eyes were locked on Simon.

Jace hurled himself at the door again – but slowly. So slowly. He moved in slow motion, and Simon could see every drop of sweat on his forehead, every golden hair in high definition, crisp and perfect. The wolf's paws sl-ow-ly hit the floor, and sl-ow-ly lifted up again, o-n-e by o-n-e. There was eons of time for Simon to half-turn and pluck a knife from Jace's belt, as easily as picking an apple from a tree. But this fruit was sharp and gleaming, and the wolf was in the middle of the same step, and Simon didn't want to lose Simiel so he threw Jace's dagger instead, a crisp, snapping motion of his wrist.

Simon remembered marvelling when, in Biology, Mr Yakolev had told them of the difficulties people had in creating a machine that could catch a ball. Every day, billions of human beings caught things thrown at them: footballs, baseballs, tennis balls, fruit, pillows – anything. You only fumbled a catch when you over-thought it; leave your brain and muscles to it, and 9 times out of 10 you caught the thing. The same was true of throwing something at a target. Because the human brain could work out trajectories in an instant that the world's most powerful super computers struggled with.

Simon was not an athlete. He didn't play football, baseball, _or_ tennis. He almost always missed or dropped anything tossed to him. But this time – with everything so slow and sharp and clear – it was the easiest thing in the world to see where the knife had to go, and how to get it there.

And the blade sank deep into the werewolf's side, just above his front right foreleg.

It yelped and skidded to a halt, but three more were already on its heels and the syrup-slow world snapped in half and Jace hit the door again. It screeched in protest, all rust and unhappy wood, but it gave and Jace snatched at Simon's wrist, wrenching him through it into the dark space beyond.

"Third time's the charm," Jace panted, and Simon had the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind him. Darkness swallowed them, only Simiel and Sanvi casting their ghostly light to illuminate Jace's face as he ordered, "Out of the way!"

Simon ducked and Jace's stele snapped out like a sword, slashing a staunch note into the door. Simon glanced at it and heard something he'd never heard in real life, only in movies like _Lord of the Rings_: the bellow of a horn ringing out over a battlefield, aching and spiralling.

_To hold against pursuit._

"Your dagger," Simon began, but Jace just shook his head.

"It happens." He put the stele away. "We'd better hurry. The rune will keep them back, but not for long."

Even as he spoke Simon could hear the thumps and thuds of someone – presumably the wolves – throwing themselves against the door. It shuddered, and bits of dust and flakes of stone drifted down from the top of the doorway with each hit. Simon swallowed. "Wonderful idea. I'll be right behind you."

Jace grinned tiredly at him. Sanvi's light flashed off his teeth, making them gleam like vampire fangs, and for the first time Simon saw that Jace wasn't in his usual perfect shape. His clothes were torn, and – was that blood? "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned. He took a step towards the blonde, raising Simiel so he could better examine Jace's wounds. The motion pulled at the injury to his shoulder, and he winced, trying to reach up and touch it.

Jace caught his wrist before he could. "It'll only make it worse," he said simply. "Come on. Once we're out of here we can take care of them properly."

Jace's fingertips were pressed right over Simon's pulse. Simon swallowed again.

Deferring to the Shadowhunter's expertise, he lowered his hand and followed Jace up the stairs waiting at the end of the damp, mouldering passageway. The wooden steps spiralled up into the darkness, dusty and uncertain, but there was no choice except to trust them. Simon tried not to wince as they groaned under his feet – and managed to swallow his cry of surprise when part of the banister came off in his hand.

They went so slowly – wary of a weak step giving way and sending them plummeting – and the staircase rose so endlessly that Simon began to wonder if they would ever reach the top. And of course, because that was how this new reality he'd found himself in _worked_, it was at that precise moment that a muffled explosion rocked the stairwell.

Simon glared up at the ceiling. "I didn't even say it!"

Jace, looking down in the opposite direction, ignored him. "They've gotten past the door," he said grimly. "Damn. I thought it would hold for longer."

A sensation like the tip of a dagger running down his vertebrae. "Now what?" Simon asked. Without thinking, he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Now we run."

Without discussing it further they burst into motion at the same moment, two parts of the same whole and Simon spared a thought to pray for the stairs to hold before conscious thought was swept away in the tide of _run, run, run._ Despite his injuries Jace moved smoothly and easily, but Simon's body screamed at him, almost loud enough to drown out the screeching shrieks of the steps under their feet. His shoulder and back burned where the vampire had – what? Bitten him, clawed him? _Hurt _him, and his rucksack banged against his spine with every step, his breath clawing at the inside of his throat, but he didn't dare stop or beg for a respite. He swore he could make out the wolves' paws thudding on step after step down below, and he could _definitely _hear them howling: the sound shot up through the stairwell like a gleaming silver arrow, searching for its target.

Which was _them_.

They passed the fifth landing. On the sixth was a heavy steel door, propped open with a brick, and the air coming through it – it was _outside_ air, night air, and Simon wanted to cheer but he didn't have the breath. Jace shoved him at the door and he fell through it, landing on his hands and knees on concrete, but the pain of his scraped palms didn't register through the surge of relief. Jace hurtled through right after him and slammed the door shut with an incredible _clang_.

"Kent, Wayne, and Diana Themyscira," Simon gasped, naming DC's holy trinity with fervent reverence. "We actually made it."

"For the moment." Jace didn't sound as if he shared Simon's relief.

When Simon looked up, he saw why. They were standing on a slate roof, surrounded by neglected brick chimneys and watched bemusedly by an old water tower; a sheet of tarpaulin covered a lumpy pile of wood or other building materials. The sky above them was not, as Simon had expected, black but a deep, rich sapphire, promising reinforcements via the approaching dawn. _At least the vampires won't be able to get at us_, he thought. The stars looked like pin-pricks in dark silk, as if beyond the realm of the sky there was another, greater light, peeking through to the mortal world through those tiny holes.

If angels _did_ exist, did that mean Heaven did too? _Now is not the time to wonder. _

"They must fly up here," Jace murmured, more to himself than to Simon. "Not that it does us much good."

For the _n_th time that night, Simon pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and slicing across his upper back. "What about a fire escape?"

There wasn't one. Or rather, there _was _– but it was a twisted heap of metal on the ground behind the hotel, long ago ripped away from the wall and discarded.

_For what possible reason? _Simon snarled silently. _Why bother destroying something that you don't care about?_

The door was vibrating: the wolves, and perhaps the vampires as well, had reached the top of the stairs. They would break out and onto the roof in another minute or two.

Jace pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The desperate air of the gesture made Simon's stomach twist painfully; he looked away, trying to calm himself by rubbing his thumb over Simiel's hilt.

Jace muttered to himself, his voice strained. "Think, Wayland, _think_ – "

"I don't suppose there's a rune for flight, is there?" Simon asked jokingly. He knew just how it would sound, the song of it – the rich ripple of a piano, hand drums, a female singer, voice raised in a high, perfect, wordless melody – he could see the note it would make in his head. Two downward triangles and a curving bar between them – a pair of wings...

"No, but..." Jace dropped his hands. "That's it! I can't believe I didn't think of it before!"

"What? Jace?" But Jace was already running to the other side of the roof, and Simon, bemused, couldn't do anything but rush after him. The blonde went straight for the pile of lumber and started pulling at the tarpaulin; without asking for an explanation (there was no _time_) Simon shoved Simiel in a pocket, grabbed hold of another corner of tarpaulin and helped him. It came free in a dark, rippling wave, and Simon blinked in surprise at the revelation of silver and sparkle, smooth leather and jewel-bright colour.

"_Motorcycles?_"

Without deigning to respond, Jace swung atop the nearest one, a huge Harley painted with a red so garnet-perfect it might have been fresh blood, matching the dark stains on Jace's clothes. Golden flames licked over the paintjob and fenders. Simon was still staring when Jace looked over his shoulder impatiently. "Get on!"

"Mom told me never to accept rides from strangers," Simon said promptly, and Jace grinned, wicked and wild and the archetype of every bad boy every mother had ever warned against. Simon swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. "A-and, we don't have the keys."

"I don't need keys," Jace said dismissively. "It runs on demon energies." Like that was supposed to mean anything to Simon. "Now are you going to get on, or do you want to ride your own?"

And give up the chance to have his arms around Jace's waist? Not freaking likely. Simon was sliding onto the bike behind Jace almost before he thought to wonder exactly what Jace's plan was.

"Closer," Jace said, and the note in his voice made Simon shiver; a cocky, husky little murmur, almost but not quite a purr. Simon scooted closer obediently, and Jace shoved the point of his stele into the ignition. The bike roared to life in response. Jace's abdomen was smooth and hard under Simon's hands, and the muscles flexed once when Simon splayed his fingers over them. With his face so close to Jace's shoulder, Simon breathed in the scents of blood and leather, sweat and skin, and resisted the urge to bury his face in the blonde's neck: he smelled _good_, the combination of scents somehow both sexy and safe, reassuring.

Except... "Jace, what exactly is your plan?"

If Jace answered, he was drowned out by the sudden crash of the door finally giving way. Giant wolves and hissing vampires burst through the doorway, a volcanic eruption of fur and fang, and Simon swallowed a yelp, clamping his arms more tightly around Jace's waist as the motorcycle surged forward. The machine rumbled and shrieked, tires skidding over the slate and Jace yelled something but Simon couldn't hear it, and they were heading straight for the edge of the roof and he'd never even been on a rollercoaster and it was closerclosercloser _oh God oh fuck fuck __**fuck**_ _this is insane that's it this is how I die_ and he sank his teeth into Jace's shoulder to muffle a scream as they shot out into open space and –

Hurtled down like a red-and-gold falling star, _dropping_, ten fucking _floors_ of drop –

Jace was gasping, taking one hand off the handlebars to reach back, knotting his fingers in Simon's hair and everything was electric, screaming, weightless, _falling_ –

And then the bike jerked. The engine sputtered and they pulled out of their dive in a Wronskei Feint, and Jace reclaimed his hand in the same moment that Simon unclenched his teeth from the blonde's shoulder. Jace was laughing, whooping wild cries of relief and exhilarated delight, and Simon grinned despite himself, despite the uncertain, jelly-like sensation in his stomach.

He glanced back at the vampires and wolves gathered on the Dumort's rooftop – and then looked away. If he ever saw that place again, it would be too soon.

Vampires...Vampire motorbikes... "Hey," he yelled over the wind and the engine, suddenly remembering something. "Alec said only _some _of these things could fly. And Magnus said none of them could! How did you know he was wrong?"

Jace steered them around a traffic light in the process of turning from green to red. "I didn't!" he shouted gleefully, and Simon was just about to throttle him when the bike suddenly shot straight up into the air. Simon yelped and clutched Jace's belt like a lifeline. "You should look down! It's awesome!"

"_You _look down! That's how far you're going to fall when I shove you off this thing!"

But he did look, because how could he not? New York stretched out beneath them like the most incredible map, all neon and shadows, glass and concrete and cars like little enamel beetles scuttling along black tarmac ribbons. Simon couldn't believe how high up they were, and he felt an echo of Jace's excitement catch like a spark beneath his skin. The wind kissed his face, cool and caressing after the night's sticky heat, and for a moment – just a moment – Simon almost wanted to let go. To spread his arms and fall back into the air, feel what angels felt when they fell beneath a star-studded sky.

But he didn't. Because that would be incredibly stupid.

They crossed the East River, a grey-green band of metal dividing the city. At the Queensboro Bridge Jace turned them south; the sky was growing paler and paler, the rich colours slowly being washed out by Dawn's rosy fingers. The Brooklyn Bridge glittered like a fairytale edifice in the distance, and beyond it, barely a blur of colour, Simon could pretend to make out the Statue of Liberty.

"Are you all right?" Jace yelled.

"I'm fine!" Simon shouted back. And to prove it, he whooped, feeling ridiculous and stupid but also wild and free.

Jace laughed and echoed him, and then they were both doing it, competing to see who could shout the loudest, wordless cries that tore through the morning air and Simon couldn't stop laughing. He had never felt so alive as he did then, cutting loose and just _screaming_ out at the world, screaming his fierce joy at the river, the sky, the sunrise –

Suddenly Jace stiffened. "Sunrise," he breathed, and Simon only heard him because he turned his head to face east and his lips were nearly on Simon's jaw.

Simon swallowed hard. "So?" he called, torn between the shocky note in Jace's voice and the near-touch of his mouth. "Sunrise means no vampires – hey!" He protested as Jace spun them around without warning, wrenching harshly on the handlebars. "What's wrong?"

Jace sent them downwards, flying down to the edge of the island. The water gleamed and sparkled, white where the dawning sunlight touched it. "I told you! The bike runs on demon energies!" He pulled up just before they hit the water, and Simon's heart was pounding. Spray arced up from the bike's wheels in crystal droplets, and Simon spluttered as a less picturesque splash got him in the face. He eased one arm from around Jace's waist to wipe at his face with his sleeve as the blonde drove them on a level with the water, as if the river were a road. "As soon as the sun comes up – "

The engine started to gurgle.

"You have _got _to be kidding me!" Simon protested, but no one was. Jace punched the accelerator, swearing, but the short burst of speed was cut off in the choking, gasping sounds of a dying animal. The motorcycle started to buck in its death throes and Simon's eyes grabbed at the morning star and _wished_, desperately, because he so badly did not want an early morning dunking. The sun was rising and the pebbled shore was rapidly approaching, and Simon held his breath, not taking his eyes off his wishing star – _just a little more, please, c'mon, just a few seconds more _–

His sigh of relief whooshed out of him as they cleared the bank. But too soon: they overshot and suddenly they were above the highway, instead of the relatively deserted wharves, and they were flying lower and lower no matter how Jace twisted his stele or kicked – whatever it was that made a motorbike go. Simon jerked up his feet as the wheels bounced off the roof of a truck, and then they were clear, clear and going down in the near-empty parking lot of some supermarket chain. "Hang on to me!" Jace yelled, the bike jerking and snorting just like a horse. "Hang on to me, Simon, and _do not let_ – "

They hit the asphalt front wheel first. The next few seconds were a terrifying blur of screeching metal as they slid into a skid, almost horizontal against the ground. Sparks flew and Simon nearly screamed as his leg was dragged against the uneven asphalt, the ground shredding his jeans like paper. He channelled the pain into holding tight to Jace, and one of Jace's hands reached down and clutched his wrist, grasping Simon just as tightly as the smell of burned rubber surrounded them like mustard gas.

It felt like the eye of the storm, that hand holding his.

At last the bike came to a stop. For a moment neither boy moved – Simon didn't feel as though he _could_ move. His left leg, the one caught under the bike and torn along the ground, was a flaming limb of agony, and he was numbly terrified that it might have been reduced to mincemeat. The wounds on his shoulder and back felt like chasms carved through flesh and bone.

If he moved, he thought, he might shatter into a million pieces.

But with a long, shuddery exhalation, the bike dissolved. The sun rose up and the machine melted, dissolving into silvery ash; the sudden lack of support dumped both Jace and Simon onto the ground properly.

Simon cried out as dropping the few inches to the asphalt put his weight on top of his leg.

"Simon!"

A glint of crystal. Jace's stele. Simon peered through his glasses – miraculously in one piece, but they were dirty with grit and splashes of the East River. Jace looked as bad as Simon felt; his face was a mess of bloodied grazes, and one sleeve of his jacket was in tatters, shredded like Simon's jeans. The Shadowhunter was paper-pale beneath the blood and dirt, his eyes frenzied. "Just lie still, I'll heal you – just stay still – "

Shaking, Simon shook his head. "Clary," he gasped. He was lying on his side – his rucksack – was it – was Clary –

"Listen to the demon hunter, Simon," Clary said, and Simon would have shot upright if she hadn't firmly pinned his shoulder to the ground.

"_Clary!_"

She was rumpled and dirty, but there was no blood on her: she rolled her eyes under his inspection and waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I'm fine, now let's get _you_ fixed up, okay?" Beneath her blasé assurances, her voice shook a little: Simon didn't call her on it. "Jace, if you would?"

Simon reached for her hand. She squeezed his fingers hard enough to grind the bones together, but he didn't care. "Clary," he said roughly. "I thought – I thought you – "

Her brittle smile softened. "I'm fine," she said gently. "I promise. But you need one of those magical tattoo thingies." She made her voice light. "You're kind of a mess, Simon."

"They're not magic," Jace muttered darkly under his breath at the same time that Simon said, "Really? I hadn't noticed. Thank you for pointing that out to me, Lewis."

Clary grinned, and even Jace's lips twitched as he bent over Simon's leg with his stele.

Nobody mentioned the death-grip Simon kept on Jace's free hand.

* * *

Enma is a deity from Naruto. I think you should be able to get all the other references.

AND THE KISS IS FAST APPROACHING, PEOPLE! I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR THIS!


	18. Chapter 18

I meant to upload this on Tuesday, but I'm actually going to be very busy the next few days – I'm travelling Monday and then on Tuesday and Wednesday I have entrance exams for uni. Wish me luck!

And now, the one you've all been waiting for – dun dun DUUUUUN!

* * *

It was a long, miserable trip back to the Institute. Their bloodied, dirty clothes drew stares from all corners, and worse, it seemed there were limits to what an _iratze_ could accomplish: despite all Jace's efforts, Simon could only limp, barely able to put any weight on his leg at all.

It was unpleasant in the extreme. So unpleasant, that Simon's body finally gave up the battle somewhere on the Subway: as Clary called her mom he fell asleep as suddenly and sharply as falling into a well, one that was dark and warm and smelled comfortingly of leather. He was out like a light.

He woke up four stops before theirs with his head on Jace's shoulder and no memory of putting it there. Jace was sitting very still, and Simon breathed in and out slowly and deeply without opening his eyes.

He pretended that Clary shaking his shoulder at their stop was what woke him.

Hodge, Isabelle and Alec were all waiting for them when they came stumbling in, Simon leaning heavily on Clary and Jace carrying Simon's backpack.

(Jace had protested this arrangement, no doubt feeling it reflected badly on his masculinity, but Clary had firmly pointed out that she was the only one without any injuries, and in the state he was in she could beat him around the head until he gave in, if he liked. He did not like, and so had sensibly, if grudgingly, deferred to her. "Smart man," Simon had told him.)

They were barely through the door before Hodge launched into a searing lecture that would have done Jocelyn proud, although since he was focussing most of his energy into remaining upright Simon missed most of it. The general gist was something like 'WILL NEVER TRUST YOU AGAIN' and 'YOU HAVE BROUGHT SHAME UPON YOUR HOUSE' 'BROKE THE LAW' 'THROWN OUT OF THE CLAVE'.

_Jesus Christ on a T-Rex, shut up already,_ Simon thought. Only when everyone stared at him – Isabelle hiding a snigger behind her hand, Alec appalled, Clary grinning and Jace's mouth twitching – did Simon realise he'd spoken aloud.

"Ah. Yes." Hodge cleared his throat. "I suppose the rest can wait until your injuries have been seen to." He glared at Jace. "But do _not _think this is the end of the matter, Jace Wayland. You've endangered other people with your wilfulness. This is one incident I will not allow you to shrug off!"

"I wasn't planning to," Jace said, with a perfectly straight face. "I can't shrug anything off. My shoulder's dislocated."

Clary snorted into hysterical giggles, doubling over and clutching her stomach. "Dislocated," she gasped, her shoulders shaking, and went into full meltdown. Hodge looked alarmed, but Simon just patted her on the head.

"Don't worry, she gets like this," he assured them as Clary laughed and laughed. "You just have to wait it out. Sometimes she ends up on the floor like this crazy giggle monster and you just have to step over her to get to things." He kept patting her. "There there," he cooed. "It wasn't that funny, Clary. You don't have to laugh yourself to death."

"Could she actually do that?" Alec asked, wide-eyed, and Jace snorted.

"He's joking, you idiot."

Hurt flashed across Alec's face, and Simon thought, _his shoulder was dislocated but he let me sleep on it anyway._

Hodge shook his head with perhaps only half-faked despair and jabbed his finger towards the stairs. "The Infirmary. All of you!"

)0(

There were, apparently, more healing runes than just _iratze_. Stronger ones.

Simon soon learned the reason _iratze _was preferred as wave after wave of excruciating pain tore through his body. It wasn't the rune itself which hurt, but where _iratze _healed in a rush of warmth, these others made him hyper aware of every capillary being drawn back into its proper place, every skin cell being regrown, every tiny fracture in his leg being forced closed. He bit down on the leather strap they gave him and shrieked around it as his body was shoved back into its natural alignment in the most unnatural of ways.

And this was _after _picking out all the gravel out of his leg, _and _the _iratzes_ Jace had used in the parking lot.

When it was over, his skin had smoothed over the wounds like clay, but the muscles ached and Hodge warned him not to put any weight on them for a few more hours. Simon was happy to comply. He drank the potion Hodge gave him, dropped his glasses on the bedside table and closed his eyes, breathing hard and trying to make his stomach stop heaving.

He didn't drop off to sleep again, though. Couldn't – despite the soporific effect of Hodge's tonic Simon's head felt too full, thoughts snapping back and forth like leaves in a breeze. He listened instead, absently, as Jace quietly recounted the night's events to Hodge while Alec drew healing runes on him.

Jace skipped deftly around the white light Simiel had created; instead, he told them that the werewolves had arrived before the vampires could attack in the first place. It was the only edit he made in the story, and Simon drowsily wondered about it. Alec already knew that Jace had given him a seraph blade...But maybe Hodge didn't? _So? Why not tell him? _

_Urgh, my head hurts..._

"Simon?" Jace asked softly. Simon felt the mattress shift, and opened his eyes a touch to see Jace sitting down on his, Simon's, bed. Clearly Jace was more fully healed than Simon was. "How are you feeling?"

"Mmf."

Jace nodded as if this made perfect sense. But then, perhaps Simon had instinctively tapped into the language of the wounded, which Jace, as a demon hunter, no doubt spoke fluently. "I'm drugged," Simon realised, because that was too weird a thought even for him.

Jace grinned. "Don't worry. I won't take advantage of you."

Simon sighed dramatically and closed his eyes again. "Flirt." He manfully snuggled into the blankets. "Tell me a story," he ordered.

"A what?" Jace sounded startled.

"You know." Simon peeked one eye open. "A story. So I can sleep."

"Why – you know what, don't answer that." Jace was silent a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was like glass; completely clear, with nothing in it. "All right. Once there was a boy."

"Good start," Simon murmured. "A Shadowhunter boy?"

"Of course."

"Just as long as there's no ferrets," Simon said darkly.

He could hear Jace's grin. "No ferrets," he promised. "Now be quiet and let me tell the story.

"When the boy was six years old, his father gave him a falcon to train. Falcons are raptors – killing birds, his father told him, the Shadowhunters of the sky."

Simon's mind was instantly full of demonic robins, prey for falcon Shadowhunters.

"The falcon didn't like the boy," Jace continued, his voice gone empty again, "and the boy didn't like it, either. Its sharp beak made him nervous, and its bright eyes always seemed to be watching him. It would slash at his wrists and his hands were always bleeding. He didn't know it, but his father had selected a falcon that had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus was nearly impossible to tame. But the boy tried, because his father had told him to make the falcon obedient, and he wanted to please his father."

Simon wasn't sure why. The guy sounded like a grade-A bastard.

"He stayed with the falcon constantly, keeping it awake by talking to it and even playing music to it, because a tired bird was meant to be easier to tame. He learned the equipment: the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash that bound the bird to the wrist. He was meant to keep the falcon blind, but he couldn't bring himself to do it – instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust him. He fed it from his hand, and at first it would not eat. Later it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of his palm. But the boy was glad, because it was progress, and because he wanted the bird to know him, even if the bird had to consume his blood to make that happen."

"This is a creepy story," Simon murmured.

He felt a touch – light as a feather and quick as a kiss – brush his forehead, but he didn't open his eyes to look.

"He began to see that the falcon was beautiful," Jace said quietly. "That its slim wings were built for the speed of flight, that it was strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the ground, it moved like light. When it learned to circle and come to his wrist, he nearly shouted with delight. Sometimes the bird would hop to his shoulder and put its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and when he was certain it was not just tamed but perfectly tamed, he went to his father and showed him what he had done, expecting him to be proud.

"Instead his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, and broke its neck. 'I told you to make it obedient,' his father said, and dropped the falcon's corpse to the ground. 'Instead, you taught it to love you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: they are fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not tamed; it was broken.'

"Later, when his father left him, the boy cried over his pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the bird's body away and bury it. The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he learned: that to love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed."

"That's a _horrible_ story!" Simon declared, scandalised. "This is like Tales of Beedle the Shadowhunter, isn't it? Nephilim bedtime stories. Holy Batman. And that moral! That's such – such – " He struggled for suitably deriding noun. "It's _stultiloquence!_"

Jace's eyebrows rose, an amused twist to his mouth. "Did you just make that up?"

"Stultiloquence," Simon told him archly, "means _nonsense. _Balderdash. _Tripe._ Crap, bullshit, LIES AND SLANDER." He jabbed his finger at Jace. "Which is what that story is. Love is _awesome_. It _rocks_. It is the _coolest of the emotions_. Love is never bad. Ever ever." He paused for a second, thinking about it. "Sometimes we do bad things because of love," he admitted, thinking of love's darker side, stalking and marital abuse and paedophilia. "But that's _people_ fucking up. Love itself is never bad." He blinked and glared at Jace. "And also, that dad is a _douche_. I recommend covering him in jam and sticking him in bear country."

That shocked laughter back into Jace's empty eyes. "Seraphs and Fallen, you are _insane_."

"I'm _awesome_," Simon corrected him. "I am the awesomest. I am _King of the Win._"

Jace laughed again. "Go to sleep, your Majesty," he grinned, getting up from the bed. "You can tell me all about being King later."

"You can be Queen if you want," Simon mumbled, but he was already slipping under and he wasn't sure whether or not Jace heard him.

Just as he drifted off, he remembered. _He gave me everything I wanted. Horses, weapons, books, even a hunting falcon..._

"Oh dear," Simon murmured sleepily, frowning with distress, and then he was gone.

)0(

"Wake up, mundane!"

Simon woke with a start, and even blurred and softened without his glasses, Isabelle's anger was a terrifying thing to behold. "I'm awake, I'm awake! What'd I do?"

"That," Isabelle said grimly, "is precisely what I intend to discover." She took a seat on a nearby chair as if alighting on a throne. Simon scrambled for his glasses and blinked as the world came into focus.

"Um?" he said intelligently.

She pointed a beautifully manicured fingernail at him. "Tell me what happened when you found the vampires."

Simon opened his mouth to do just that – and then remembered Jace spinning Hodge and Alec a line. "You know what, I don't remember," he said airily. "I must have hit my head."

She skewered him with her gaze, and he quailed. "Or, um, maybe I didn't?" he said meekly.

"I didn't think so." Pushing her hair behind her ear, Isabelle leaned back in her chair and gestured for him to begin.

"You're scarier than a Ravener, you know that?" he drawled. An attempt at flippancy that failed utterly when her subsequent smirk made him shiver. "Um. Yeah. The hotel. Okay. But do _not_ tell Hodge about this."

She nodded impatiently, and haltingly Simon told the story. About how Raphael had tried to trick them, and the ambush, and the vampires deciding to sacrifice Raphael for the chance of killing two Shadowhunters. _That _made her eyes gleam dangerously, but it was when he described how Simiel had lit up the room and burned the vampires that she hissed through her teeth with undisguised shock.

"What? _What?_"

"I don't believe this," she muttered. She rose to her feet and paced alongside his bed, her long dark hair swishing like a silk curtain with each step. "Are you absolutely _sure_ it was the light that hurt them?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Simon struggled to sit upright. "Why? What does it mean?"

"It means – " She bit her lip, uncharacteristically uncertain. "Normal seraph blades don't do that, Simon."

"Don't do _what?_" he demanded, exasperated. "Is this because it's a, what-do-you-call-it, armas-thing?"

"No. Yes. Well, yes, but not necessarily. Not all _armask__ō_ blades – only – " She cut herself off. Then, to herself, she murmured helplessly, "He – he really – "

" 'He really' – which he? Jace? Isabelle, _tell me!_"

She whirled on her heel and jabbed her finger at him. There was a lot of that going around today, Simon thought inanely. "Oh, no. _Oh no_. This one you two can sort out yourselves. I am _not _playing matchmaker for you two idiots!" She threw her hands up, and before Simon could say another word she swept out of the room, an Amazonian goddess blazing with frenetic energy.

He really would not want to be the next person to cross her path.

)0(

"_Carry on my wayward sooooooooooon,/There'll be peace when you are done –"_

Simon shot upright, flailed, yelled "Not the demon blood!", and fell out of the bed in a tangle of sheets, pillow, and glasses.

Switching his ringtone to Supernatural's themesong had been a lot funnier before demons became a real thing, he decided.

"Winchester and Sons, how may I help you today?" he gasped into his phone when he finally found it – at the bottom of his bag, shoved under his bed.

"It's funnier in Enochian," Clary answered without missing a beat, and he grinned despite the new bruising on his funny bone.

"I think it loses something in translation," he agreed. "What's up? And why are you calling me, aren't you downstairs somewhere?"

"Simon, it's eleven o' clock at night. I went home."

His eyes widened. He searched fruitlessly for a clock, then remembered it was the 21st century and glanced at his phone. "You woke me up. I can't believe I slept so long!"

"I spent most of the day asleep too," she confessed. "I was just calling to make sure you're all right."

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Simon rolled onto his back on the floor, deciding not to bother getting back up into the bed. The blanket was beneath him, anyway, disguising the hardness of the floor.

He could almost hear her shrug. "I'm okay. I wasn't hurt, not like you two."

Simon remembered the scream of agony tearing through his leg. "It looked worse than it was," he lied.

"Uh huh." He could tell she didn't believe a word of it. Smart woman. "I just – I wanted to say thank you." Her voice grew small and quiet. "For coming to get me."

Simon blinked. "Clary, there is no world in any of the multiverses where I wouldn't come when you needed me."

"Same here." She took a deep breath. "But – still. It's an easy thing to promise, but you actually did it. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said quietly.

A moment of heavy, but comfortable silence. Unpressurised. "Good night, Simon."

"Night, Clary. Hey, record _Supernatural_ for me, will you?"

She snorted. "Why, you need tips now?"

"You never know what might come in useful," he said sagely.

She laughed. "I will. Night."

"Night."

When she hung up, he snapped his phone shut and pressed it to his lips, thinking. After a minute he pushed himself up off the floor. He was cautious, but his leg felt perfectly normal, and as if that wasn't awesome enough, when he tipped his bag out onto the bed, there was nothing broken in there either.

"Okay, now _that _is a miracle," he grinned. He hugged his iPad, and the books inside it, to his chest like a teddy bear before going through his clothes for something clean. In the process, he caught a whiff of himself. "Urgh, okay, shower first. Definitely shower first."

He pitied whoever was going to wash his sheets.

When he returned, freshly scrubbed and towelling his hair dry, he found Church sitting on the bed amongst his stuff.

"Hey, Church. What's up?" He blinked as the cat tapped its paw against a square of white paper. "Is this for me?"

Church nodded regally. Feeling extremely strange about receiving a cat as a courier, Simon picked up the note.

_Meet me in the music room. Bring Simiel._

_~J_

"He hasn't set a time," Simon commented, his mouth gone dry. He glanced at the cat. "Are you here to make sure I don't get lost?"

Church flicked his tail.

"I'm going to take that as a _yes,_ so thank you." Simon looked back at the note and swallowed. "Right. Well. Since there's no time set, I guess that means I should go now?"

Again, a flick of the tail.

"You are making me more nervous instead of less, you know," Simon accused. He took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. But first I'm going to change my shirt. Don't give me that look, I know he's taken. I just want to look my best."

He did not put on the green t-shirt with the picture of a NES cartridge on it, because the text instructed the reader to _Blow Me_ and that did not feel appropriate. Instead he pulled on a white shirt with _Smaug's Cash 4 Gold_ printed below a lovely curled-up Smaug, looking happily smug with his pile of treasure and no dwarves to be seen.

_We pay cold hard cash for gold, silver, mithril and more!_

"See?" he told Church. "Perfectly innocent." _So why is my stomach in knots? _His fingertips brushed his pocket, and the small bulge of Simiel's hilt. "Lead on, my feline friend."

Soundlessly, Church got up, stretched, and gracefully leapt off the bed and onto the floor. He led the way out of the Infirmary, and after a moment Simon padded after him, barefoot. The corridor was silent, hushed as if in expectation, and Simon tried uselessly to distract himself, to think anything but _this is it. _Because it _wasn't_ 'it', he reminded himself ruthlessly. There was no 'it'; Jace was with Alec, and that was the final say on the matter. The _only_ say that mattered.

_This is not an assignation. This is – this is –_

Simon stopped walking and slipped his fingers under his glasses and against his eyes.

_If it is – if he tries to kiss you – are you going to stop him?_

Simon tried to imagine it. He didn't have to try very hard: his mind flashed back to that moment in the training room, Jace's body a warm weight on top of him and the Shadowhunter's eyes molten gold, his breath on Simon's lips.

Imagining it – imagining if Jace's mouth had descended just a little bit more –

_No_, he thought, the realisation carried on a searing blade of heat. _No. If he tries to kiss me, I'm not going to stop him. _

Which meant he should turn around right now, because that was wrong, it was horribly wrong of him, he was not, and was not going to be a, a bloody _homewrecker_ –

Church meowed and batted at the door to Simon's left. It swung open a little, smoothly, and Simon's heart simultaneously sank and leapt as Jace's voice called, "Is that you, Simon?"

"That was Church, actually," Simon answered. Helplessly, hating himself, he moved forward and pushed the door open wider. "He was just making sure I got here instead of Narnia."

He paused in the doorway, and Jace looked up at him. The blonde was sitting at the piano, and he didn't smile but something taut and tense went out of his body. "Where?"

_You're in the closet, you should know all about it. _Simon swallowed the quip. "Narnia. It's a magical land in a clos – wardrobe."

Jace raised his eyebrows, lips twitching. "Well, it's a good thing you didn't end up there, then. Thank you, Church."

The cat huffed once – in annoyance? Acknowledgement? Simon couldn't tell – and sauntered away.

Jace looked back down at the keys beneath his fingers. "Are you coming in?"

"That depends. Are you going to tell me why you had a cat summon me here?" Belying his words, Simon stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The lock clicked with finality.

"I wanted to show you something." Which didn't really answer the question. But before Simon could point that out, Jace glanced up at him, and his eyes – they were two golden hooks, slipping deftly between Simon's ribs and catching on his breastbone.

Simon forgot how to breathe.

"Come sit down?" Jace asked softly, his gaze intent _(intense)_, and Simon found himself crossing the room without thinking about it. Jace made room for him on the piano stool. Their thighs and shoulders brushed, and Simon was hyperaware of the contact.

Without a word, Jace began to play.

The piece began slowly, but Simon recognised it nonetheless, and closed his eyes at the dart of silver-sweet pain the recognition sent through him.

_Jace..._

The Shadowhunter spun sound into silver beneath his fingers, weaving magic to rival Jocelyn's skill. Delicate, shining notes like drops of moonlight in still water made Simon's eyes burn, pulled silken ribbons tight around his throat. It was almost unbearably lovely, tempered by deeper, richer notes that kept it from growing painfully sweet: the melody danced slowly, in spiralling eddies and joyful soaring stretches. There was sunlight in it, sunlight filtered through summer leaves; something hopeful and something beyond hope, something that said that even if hope was betrayed by circumstance, there was still uncounted beauty in the world. It tried to share that beauty; it was a piece about sharing, about the musician showing the listener what they saw because the listener was there, like a light in the shadows, revealing hidden gemstones the musician couldn't see before. Rubies and garnets, and golden lacework that embedded itself on Simon's skin, warming him from the core outwards. The unfamiliar rune-note in Simiel echoed behind every bar.

It was a piece by a South Korean artist named Yiruma. Jocelyn had every one of his CDs, and Simon knew this one by heart.

It was called _Because I Love You._

Three and a half minutes. The music only took three and a half minutes to play, but it felt endless, as if Jace had taken them outside of time. As if the notes had grown up around the two boys like Sleeping Beauty's briars, locking out everyone and everything else in the world.

The briars in the story had been undone with a kiss. When Jace's hands finally stilled – when the melody drifted softly and gently away – Simon didn't know whether to hope Jace knew the ending to the fairytale, or hope that he didn't.

If Jace did know the story, he made no move to recreate it. The two of them sat in silence until it grew unbearable.

Simon cracked first. "I have to go," he forced out, standing up from the stool and making for the door.

"What?" Without looking, he could hear the confusion in Jace's voice. "Why?"

"Because _I know that song_," Simon snapped, whirling on Jace. "I know what it's called. Christ, what are you _doing_, Jace?"

Jace's expression snapped shut. "I apologise," he said formally. "I thought my feelings were mutual. Clearly I was mistaken."

"Your – " Simon's heart stuttered. For a second he couldn't believe what he'd heard – and not because he was outraged, the way he should have been.

With effort, he came back to himself. "It doesn't fucking matter whether or not they're mutual!" he almost snarled. "_What about Alec?_"

Jace blinked, bemusement breaking through his mask. "What about him?"

"Are you seriously telling me that your boyfriend doesn't care about _this?_" Simon wrenched Simiel out of his pocket. "I know damn well what this is, Jace! You should have seen Alec's face when he saw it – it was like somebody stabbed him in the heart. And now you're, what, _seducing_ me? How could you do that to him?"

_How could you do that to _me_?_

Jace blinked again. Slowly, like a cat. Angry tears stung Simon's eyes like needles; he ignored them, his knuckles white around Simiel's hilt. Fuck it – fuck everything, this – he should just go, go before this went any further, before they cut each other too deeply to heal –

"Alec is not my boyfriend."

Simon stared at him. "What?" he whispered.

Slowly, with exquisite care, Jace stood up from the stool. His eyes locked with Simon's as he repeated, clearly and deliberately, "Alec is not, and never has been, and never will be my boyfriend."

"He's not – but – " Simon licked his lips. "What?"

"Where do you get these ideas?" Jace mused. His long legs ate up the space between them. "Alec and I are not lovers. He's my best friend. Simiel upset him because he thinks I'm making a mistake, choosing you." He stopped inches from Simon, and Simon's breath caught in his throat, a husky rasp as Jace's voice lowered and his eyes turned _searing_.

"He doesn't realise," Jace murmured, touching his fingertips along Simon's jaw, trailing fire, "that falling for you wasn't a choice."

A fallen angel, blazing and golden and Simon was nearly vibrating with the urge to touch. The memory of Jace's hard abdomen under his hand flashed through him, lightning bright. "But he's your _parabatai_," Simon managed. Somehow. "I thought that meant..."

"It means warriors who fight together. It means we're _brothers_." Jace's thumb brushed over Simon's lower lip, and it took everything he had not to suck it into his mouth, to only hiss out a startled breath at the crashing wave of _want_. "I could never want him like I want you."

"Oh, thank you Jesus," Simon breathed – and fisted a hand in Jace's shirt and yanked and _there_, finally, Jace's mouth on his.

Fire, meet gunpowder.

The moment their lips touched, the dam blew. Jace surged forward and Simon dropped Simiel and his back hit the door, all in one blazingly bright instant; fire, fire and thunder and the rush of blood pounding in his ears and finally, finally, _finally._ Lips and tongue and teeth, Simon's hands buried in Jace's hair and Jace's everywhere, running hungrily over every inch of Simon they could reach, branding him. And that was not to be borne, the claim could not go one way; Simon _raked_ his nails over Jace's back and revelled in the blonde's startled gasp, drank it down and felt grenades go off beneath his skin when Jace's calluses slid under his shirt, catching and dragging over his stomach and sides and so _unbelievably fucking good_, converting his blood to magma. The length of Jace's body, pressed smooth and perfect against his, chest to chest and hip to hip and the unmistakable, incontestable bulge between Jace's thighs, the match of his own – Simon slid his leg between Jace's and laughed against his lips as Jace groaned, low and sweet like melted chocolate; Simon licked it out of his mouth until Jace broke away, until his lips found Simon's jaw and Simon's hips bucked, gasping, tangling his fingers in Jace's hair and urging him on. His jaw, his neck, his throat, warm and wet and the scrape of Jace's teeth over his pulse, both of them panting and Jace's hair like silk –

Simon couldn't take it anymore: he slid his palms down over Jace's neck, shoulders, to the middle of his chest – and _shoved_.

Jace stumbled, shocked, dazed, hungry, and Simon smirked. "Back," he purred, stepping forward until he had his hand flat on Jace's chest, and the blonde's confusion was swept aside by naked desire, his eyes darkening to bronze at the command. He stepped back as Simon moved forward, back and back until he hit the piano stool and Simon pushed him down onto it, thrilling at the way that Jace just _went_ and then Simon was on him, straddling him, hands back in Jace's hair as Jace hauled him closer and both of them moaning into the kiss as gravity pulled them together. Simon rocked, hot and urgent, panting against Jace's mouth and Jace grabbed his ass and helped him move, helped to grind them together, all molten gold and sunspots. Jace slipped his other hand under Simon's shirt and carved ley lines into him, mapping him with light, everywhere, and the pressure, the heat, wave after wave of the most incredible _intensity_ and he couldn't get enough. He wanted even more.

He broke the kiss and pulled Jace's head back by his hair, a quick sharp tug. Jace was breathing hard and the sound, the puffs of air against Simon's skin made him shiver as he put his lips to Jace's ear.

"I want to jerk you off," he breathed, and smirked as Jace's hips jerked, the rhythm shot to holy Hell by the sudden bolt of lust. "Can I, Jace?" He rolled his hips, slow and deliberate and Jace groaned, a wrecked, desperate sound. "Pretty please?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Jace drawled, his voice rough and low. It slid down Simon's spine like heated satin.

Simon laughed and kissed him, deep and hungry, sparks glittering inside his fingers. "Thank you," he purred, sing-song, pushing those fingers down between their bodies. He felt a dark burst of satisfaction at Jace's blown pupils, watching him hungrily as Simon shifted a little, making room for his hands. Excitement beat steel wings in his chest, heavy and sharp, and then Jace's jeans were open and Jace was hissing through his teeth as Simon's hand slid in and around his cock.

With a hot coal in the pit of his stomach, Simon drew it out, stroking his fingertips up it from base to tip, marvelling at the silky texture and feeling his eyes go half-lidded at the sight of it. "Very, very nice," he murmured. And it _was_ – like every other bit of Jace it was perfect: seven inches long with change, at a glance, and when he wrapped his fingers around it it was beautifully thick against his palm. It twitched, and he glanced up at Jace's face – into a look that was all fire, dark and hungry and predatory.

Simon smirked.

He leaned forward and Jace met him, a clashing, fervent kiss. Their teeth clicked and Simon didn't care, just drank in the edge of savage need in Jace's lips and tongue and started to stroke. Really, they needed some kind of slick, but Jace didn't seem to be complaining; the low, hungry sounds coming from his throat made Simon shudder, made him bite at Jace's lip. The blonde jerked and growled and Simon grinned, thrilled, moving his wrist, sliding his thumb over Jace's leaking slit and Jace's hand fisted in his hair, pulled him out of the kiss.

Simon moaned, arching as Jace's grip pulled him into a bow and he was panting, shuddering, swallowing hard as Jace's other hand slid down Simon's body. "I want to touch you too," he husked and yes, wow, Simon was so _totally _on board with this plan, yep.

"Go ahead," he gasped, and Jace's low, velvety laughter made him bite his lip and swallow a whimper. Jace's fingers were quick and deft on Simon's jeans; in a moment he had them open, and he paused for just a heartbeat before –

Before his hand was in Simon's jeans –

"_Fuck _yes," Simon hissed, pushing his hips up encouragingly, breathless and stunned. Jace's calluses – holy Diana, calluses were underappreciated: the hard roughness stroking testingly over his cock evaporated all higher brain functions. "Jesus – "

Jace chuckled, lips at Simon's ear. "Not Jesus," he purred smugly. "_Jace_." His teeth closed on Simon's earlobe, a sweet sting that shocked through Simon right down to his toes.

Without discussing it they pressed their foreheads together, exchanging breath as they stroked each other. Jace's touch felt uncertain, not hesitant but inexperienced – but not for long. Simon reached down and folded his fingers over Jace's, shuddering out a sigh, showing him, _like this, and this, and this_, demonstrating the lessons even as he taught them. And Jace – ridiculous, perfect Jace – only needed to be shown once how to twist his wrist, how to rub the head of Simon's cock just right and smear the pre-come down to slick each stroke.

Jace brought his other hand to Simon's cheek, and when he moved Simon's face Simon went with it. Jace took his mouth in slow, deep kisses and the firework fizz of lust melted into something deeper, and longer-lasting. It simmered, slow and certain as magma flowing beneath the earth, and just as powerful, rich and golden and each panting brush of Jace's lips on his made Simon shiver. He could feel the eruption building, feel Jace throb against his fingers, moving and thrusting and stroking and kissing and Jace murmured Simon's name, over and over, low, purring invocations that sent him spiralling up into paradise instead of dragging him down to Earth. He muffled his gasps against Jace's throat, struggling to ride the crashing waves of pleasure without drowning, rocking and rocking his hips in instinctive urgency and "Beautiful," Jace husked, smoke and sparks and rich red velvet as he wrung Simon dry and ground his bones to gold dust. "Gorgeous, I _dreamed _of this – "

And that – Simon had no idea what to do with that. He kissed the words back into Jace's mouth and they tasted of wine and blood and here, now, Jace's turn. Jace jerked as Simon lavished attention on him, working his cock and forcing Jace to arch his neck back so Simon could hold him pinned by his hair, hold Jace immobile while Simon licked into his mouth, wet and deliciously filthy. It stoked the molten gold in Jace's eyes, gold which was so dark it was bronze and brass and Simon wanted to see it, wanted to see Jace come apart between his fingers, come apart _for him_, Simon.

"Come on, Jace," he breathed, nuzzling him, stroking him quick and dirty with a messy little twist just below the head. "Show me, show me what you look like when you shatter – let me see you – "

Jace hissed, once and sharp, and – and Simon stared, memorising every flicker of the blonde's expression, every minute detail as Jace's eyes fluttered closed and he crested. The wet, sticky rush over Simon's fingers was almost incidental to the parting of Jace's lips, the way he arched and clutched at Simon's hips, his nails biting through Simon's shirt and into his skin. Pulse after pulse of shuddering bliss, and Simon brought him through it, triumph and delight coiling like DNA strands inside him, like wires of silver and gold.

When it was over they were both breathing hard, their brows once again pressed together. Simon smelled sweat and ejaculate and Jace's skin, and he dropped soft butterfly kisses over Jace's cheeks and nose and chin and mouth.

As he brushed one of the feather-light kisses onto Jace's lips, the blonde's eyes opened, lazy and sated and looking eminently pleased with himself. He kissed back, and Simon's pulse stuttered at the gentleness in it.

They both jumped as Jace's elbow sent a _clang!_ of indignant notes up from the keyboard – and they both burst out laughing.

"That was my first time having sex on a musical instrument," Simon grinned, when he could speak again.

Jace matched it. "With me," he promised, a note of smugness staining his voice as he drew Simon down, "there's a first time every day."

Simon swallowed. "I could get used to that," he said breathlessly, and gave himself up to Jace's kiss.

)0(

Eventually they managed to disentangle themselves. Simon's blood was champagne, sparkling and full of bubbles; he knew he was grinning like an idiot, and he didn't care. Jace – Jace was pure gold, and Simon's body was still humming with pleased disbelief, a plucked harp-string of bliss still vibrating and echoing beneath his skin.

It was hard to stop kissing. Even for the time it took to strip their shirts off and use them to clean up the mess. Because of course that meant that Jace was now _shirtless_, and his Adonis-chest was wrapped around with calligraphic runes – some etched into his skin like Chinese ink, and others faded, silvery scars that glinted like white marble when they caught the light just right.

"You know, you're kind of unfairly good-looking," Simon mused, trailing his fingertips over the toned planes of Jace's stomach. "I mean, seriously. It's like looking at a Greek god."

Jace smirked. "That is a wise attitude, and I commend you for it," he said regally, and ducked, laughing, when Simon threw one of the shirts at him.

"Arrogant prick," Simon said fondly. Then, as Jace got up: "Hang on, where are you going?"

Jace drew a small carrier bag – the kind made of fabric that stores sold as 'for life' shopping bags – out from behind the piano. "I realised today that you never had a Bonding party," he explained, bringing the bag back to where Simon was lying on the floor, having disdained the numerous chairs meant for a musician's audience. "My original plan was to woo you with _inari_ and _dorayaki_."

"With what?" Simon sat up, intrigued, as Jace produced a picnic blanket from the bag and snapped it out like a magician's trick. He unpacked two plastic lunchboxes as Simon rolled his way onto the blanket.

"You're such a child." But Jace was smiling as he said it. "_Inari _and _dorayaki_. They're both Japanese. Come and try some."

Simon folded his arms behind his head instead, grinning cheekily. "I think you should feed me instead," he declared, feeling daring.

Jace rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were turned up as he deftly plucked an oblong, dark gold roll out of one of the boxes with a pair of black chopsticks. "_Spoilt_ child."

"My party," Simon reminded him. "Which reminds me: why do I get a party? Not that I'm complaining." He opened his mouth for the treat.

Jace delicately fed Simon the roll. Which wasn't a roll at all, Simon realised: it was sticky rice, stuffed in a pouch of something that was sweet in a way Simon had never experienced before. A cool kind of sweetness, entirely without sugar or additives, and yet not sweet the way raw carrots or peppers were. "When you killed the Forsaken, you bonded with Simiel," Jace explained. "If you'd been raised a Shadowhunter, your family would have thrown you a party to celebrate. How do you like the _inari_?"

Simon chewed and swallowed. "It's delicious. I've never had anything like it – is there more?"

They alternated. Jace showed Simon how to use chopsticks and didn't laugh – much – when the piece of _inari _he fumbled dropped and exploded in a burst of rice. The _dorayaki _were much easier – they were little pancakes, with custard and red bean stuffing, and Simon couldn't get enough of them. When he triumphantly stole the last one and shoved it in his mouth, Jace kissed him. "At least this way I can taste it."

It was so _easy_. The heat-haze of tension that had shimmered between them was gone, sated and satisfied, and in its wake there was only a touch of awe, a delighted disbelief that had them both sneaking glances and little touches, as if at any moment the other boy might vanish into thin air. Simon felt more relaxed than he had – since all this started, in fact. Maybe even longer. Maybe more relaxed than he had _ever_ felt.

He'd dropped Simiel when he and Jace had kissed, but he'd collected it after and now Simon pulled it out and toyed with it, trying to flip the gleaming crystal hilt through his fingers the way he'd seen people do with coins. However, epic knife throw into a werewolf notwithstanding, Simon didn't really have the right skill set for something like that, and he kept nearly dropping the seraph blade.

"Simon."

Simon looked up, and stopped playing at the look on Jace's face. "Yeah?"

Jace's gaze dropped to the seraph blade in Simon's hands. "You said you knew what it was," he said quietly. "Did you mean it?"

His stomach knotted, but Simon made himself nod. "Yep," he replied casually. "Isabelle told me." He paused, remembering how she'd reacted to hearing about Simiel's light. "Most of it, anyway," he amended.

One of Jace's eyebrows lifted. "Most of it?"

Simon looked down at the crystal in his hands. "I know it's an _armask__ō_ blade," he said softly. "That you named it after me. I know it's a kind of, a declaration. Of. Romantic inclinations." He turned the silvery dowel over. "I know normal seraph blades aren't supposed to light up like Simiel did."

Jace nodded slowly. "That's all true." He paused a moment. "Not all _armask__ō_ blades are true ones," he said finally. "Sometimes, they're just a political statement. The way two people can marry for a family alliance rather than for love." He looked at Simon. "The true _armask__ō_ knives – the ones given out of – they have the light."

Simon couldn't quite hear his heartbeat, but the inside of his head fell so silent that he came close. "Why do they light up like that, Jace?" he asked quietly. Sure that he already knew the answer, but not daring to believe it. His silent mind was spinning like a Catherine wheel, scattering glittering sparks.

Jace was sitting with his knees folded under him, his hands resting on his thighs. "Every seraph blade has power. The true _armask__ō_ sword, though, has more."

Simon's pulse beat in his fingertips. "Why?"

Jace's eyes met his, and for a moment – just a breath of time – it was like looking down into clear water. Simon glimpsed the Shadowhunter's core, vulnerable and heart wrenchingly brave in its vulnerability, just as Jace said, "Because they have the same power a mundane woman has, when she lifts a burning car off her children."

_Love_.

The word hung between them, unspoken, an opal bead strung on silk thread drawn taut from Jace's lips to Simon's heart. A dozen memories flashed through Simon's internal cinema – all the times Simiel had lit up like a star in his hand, driving back the darkness. Its light had fought off the Silent Brothers and blown up a ballroom full of vampires (while leaving Jace untouched, he remembered suddenly). Every time he'd been really scared – every time it had protected him –

That had been Jace. Jace's heart, standing between Simon and the shadows.

"Jace," Simon whispered. He didn't know what to say: nothing seemed big enough, powerful enough. He could hear the chord in his head, the ripple of notes that would encapsulate what he felt, but he had no way to put them into words.

Jace reached into the bag again. "This was my mother's," he murmured, drawing out a cuff of dark leather. "My father gave it to her. For years she wore the _armask__ō_ he gave her in it."

He held it out. Hardly daring to breathe, Simon lowered Simiel onto the picnic blanket and accepted the cuff. It was butter-soft, and dyed onyx-black. Small raised stars, some crystal and some silver, formed a circle: at the centre of it were a number of metal clasps, clearly meant to hold something in place. They looked like the setting for a gem, but the jewel was missing...

No. Not missing. He held Simiel up alongside the cuff, and saw at once that the hilt would fit perfectly into the setting.

_Simiel is the jewel. _

"The fashion's died out now, because _armask__ō_ blades are rarer than they used to be. But in the old days, when someone accepted an _armask__ō_ suit, they would wear the blade in a bracelet like that one." Jace's voice hummed with intensity, like white noise woven behind each word. But white noise had never been so meaningful. "I – I would be honoured if you would wear Simiel in it."

_Yes,_ Simon thought instantly, without hesitation. He swallowed the word back with difficulty. "What exactly would I be agreeing to, if I did?"

Jace's mouth quirked up, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's not an engagement," he assured Simon. "It's like wearing a claddagh ring point-inwards: it means that you're in a relationship. That you're taken."

He paused, and Simon looked up at him, hearing the unspoken words.

"It means that you're mine," Jace said softly. "And I'm yours."

Simon nodded slowly.

Then he snapped Simiel into place and slipped the cuff over his left wrist.


	19. Interlude: Faerie Stone

Sorry this has taken so long, guys! And I'm sorry it's only an interlude. I promise I'm working on the next chapter as fast as I can!

But GREAT NEWS: my leira (my hubby) has just gotten an awesome job as a copywriter, AND made it into the evening school he wanted. Woot! So in a few months I'll be apartment hunting in Helsinki! How cool is that?

Thank you to everyone who has been leaving such wonderful reviews! You guys bring me to tears sometimes, you really do. I LOVE YOU ALL!

* * *

Breakfast at the Institute was, by and large, a laid-back affair. The vast majority of a Shadowhunter's work took place at night, which meant that the few active hunters who weren't flat-out nocturnal slept until the sun was high in the sky as a matter of course.

But if Jace went on patrol, Alec went with him, and didn't wake up without him the next morning: they _both _slept until nearly noon, on a normal day. Sitting at the breakfast table and seeing his _parabatai_'s chair empty was like waking up in a mirror version of your own house: you recognised it and could navigate it if you had to, but it was deeply, deeply wrong. The space where Jace should be gaped like a missing tooth, and Alec couldn't keep from worrying at it, glancing at the chair every few seconds as if Jace might have teleported into it when Alec wasn't looking.

Each time, Jace was still missing.

No, not missing. Alec's stomach clenched sickly, miserably, because he knew exactly where Jace was right now.

A low, heavy _boom _broke through the building, the sound a tangible vibration in Alec's bones. Isabelle threw down her spoon like a duellist's glove, clearly grateful for the distraction. "I'll get it."

She swept out of the room. Alec picked at his cereal, keeping his eyes down. He could feel Hodge's gaze from the other side of the table, but he had no interest in his tutor's well-meaning concern. The lump in his throat was a hot coal.

His sister reappeared in the doorway. "It's for you," she announced.

Hodge began to rise from his chair, but Isabelle waved him down. "No, for _Alec_."

Alec looked up, startled out of his maudlin thoughts. "Who wants to see _me?_" It wasn't as though he had any friends who might pop around for a chat. Jace was all he had.

She grinned at him. "You'll just have to go and find out, won't you?" Instead of returning to her breakfast, she flounced out, leaving him staring at the space she'd just occupied and wondering how she managed to leave him feeling like he'd been hit in the head with a mace. "I put him in the blue room," she called over her shoulder.

She hadn't even _touched _him...

"Aren't you going to go see who your visitor is?" Hodge asked.

"What? Uh, yeah." Alec rose and dumped his bowl in the sink, making his way out of the kitchen with an unwilling curl of curiosity stretching and vibrating in the pit of his stomach. His parents wouldn't pull anything like this; he didn't know any Shadowhunters who would be more interested in talking to him than to Hodge; and he had no friends who might come and visit. No matter how he tried to puzzle it out, his mind just spun in dizzy circles, unable to provide a possible identity for the person waiting for him.

He pushed open the door to the blue room. "Hello?"

The figure standing by the window turned towards him. "Alexander." Golden cat-eyes gleamed, and Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, smiled at him. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"N-no." Alec swallowed hard, his hand still frozen on the door. Magnus was dressed far more conservatively today than he had been at the party last night, but it was still difficult for Alec to tear his eyes away. Beneath a black jacket with a high, flaring collar the warlock's t-shirt was tight enough to hint at muscle tone that would rival that of a Shadowhunter; the shape of a tie had been printed or painted on the fabric in thick silver glitter. The jacket's sleeves ended just below the elbow; beneath them Magnus wore rainbow-coloured fingerless gloves that were incongruous with all the black. "Sorry. Is there something I can help you with?" A thought occurred to him. "Is this about last night?"

"In a way." Magnus considered him for a moment. Alec saw that there was burnished gold eyeshadow on each of Magnus' eyelids. "Upon further consideration, I realised that I might have had more responsibility for young Clary's predicament than I was willing to recognise last night. I came here to give her a small token of my apology. Would you give it to her for me?"

Willingly interact with the mundane? The girl was Simon's best friend: Alec thought of her with distaste. And yet... "Why can't you give it to her yourself?"

Magnus' lips quirked up. "Your delightful sister informed me that Clary is not in residence just now." He rose one eyebrow questioningly.

Alec found himself nodding before he'd made any conscious decision to agree.

"Wonderful," Magnus purred. He twisted his hand suddenly, a quick little _flick _of motion, and abruptly there was a small object lying in his palm. Alec managed not to start, but his eyes widened slightly, both from the sight of the gift and its sudden appearance. It was a faerie stone – and a beautiful one; polished smooth, it was about the size of the ring made by Alec's thumb and index finger. The hole worn through it – by wind and rain and luck, Alec knew, not by any mortal or immortal hand – had been left rough, unpolished, but it was wide, easily big enough to encircle a human's eye.

A few rare Nephilim were born with a blinded Inner Eye. If they wanted to be Shadowhunters, they used faerie stones – because even mundanes could see the Shadow World if they looked at it through a stone with a naturally-worn hole in it.

"Well?" the warlock asked after a moment. Alec looked up at Magnus' face, and felt his insides squirm with embarrassment; the Downworlder was clearly amused. "Will you come and take it, Alec?" He smirked. "I promise I don't bite – not unless you ask me nicely."

Alec flushed. With quick, almost angry strides he crossed the space between them and snatched the gift from Magnus' hand. He pulled back quickly, but somehow he still felt Magnus' fingertips brush the underside of his wrist as he wrenched his hand away – a bare, feather-light touch that nonetheless seared Alec to the bone.

Magnus seemed unperturbed by Alec's abruptness. "Please convey my apologies to her, when you see her."

_Who?_ Alec almost asked, remembering only just in time. "Of course."

Magnus beamed. "Thank you." He bowed his head shallowly, made some strangely elegant gesture with his wrist. "I'll let you get back to your day." His smile sharpened a little, his eyelids dipping as he moved past Alec for the door. "Until we meet again, Alexander."

He was gone before Alec could process that he was leaving.

With effort, Alec uncurled his fingers from around the faerie stone. The power in them only worked if the stones were entirely unmanufactured – you couldn't bore a hole through a pebble by hand, and you couldn't go looking for the real thing. The hole had to be natural, and the stones had to be found by chance. Real faerie stones, not the secretly man-made ones found in gift shops all over the British Isles, were incredibly rare. The bigger they were, the greater their worth, because the more you could see through them at once. One as large and perfect as the one in his hand now...

Why had the High Warlock of Brooklyn given up a priceless treasure for a mundane girl he'd barely met?

* * *

NOTES

Faerie stones are real things! Google 'em if you don't believe me. I have two; when I go to New York this winter I'll be looking through them for Shadowhunters...


	20. Chapter 20

This one goes out to EVERYBODY. You've no idea how amazing and encouraging all your comments and reviews are. My replies always feel so lame and trite, because I can't possibly express how happy you guys make me. You're all incredible; I just want you to know that.

Also incredible is Cassie, my amazing, AMAZING beta! She was an EVEN BIGGER HELP THAN USUAL with this chapter, and she had it all beta-ed for me IN AN HOUR, so you guys owe her a standing ovation.

Now READ ON, PEASANTS! You're gonna love this~

* * *

"You know," Simon mused, "I was prepared to say that you were Sirius Black, what with the motorcycle incident, and your crazy habit of laughing in the face of danger. I was going to put my first impression of you aside." He ran his hand through Jace's hair, trying to keep the crazy grin off his face. "But the stalking at Java, and now the piano music? I'm sorry, my friend, but it's true: you are Edward Cullen."

Jace didn't open his eyes. His head was pillowed on Simon's chest; they were still lying on the picnic blanket. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Simon cackled, because he was an evil, evil person, and that was how they ended up watching _Twilight_ on Simon's iPad at some ridiculous hour of the morning.

It took a while. Simon's stuff was still in the Infirmary, and they had to tidy up the music room first. And Jace's hair was dishevelled, with a darkening red mark on his neck that Simon didn't remember putting there but approved of immensely, and to make a long story short they got a little distracted.

Also, it wasn't as though Simon actually had _Twilight _on his iPad. Because he had this thing called _taste_, as evidenced by the gorgeous example of hunky perfection next to him and Simon was so freaking grateful that Shadowhunters couldn't read minds.

Although Jace's smirk said he knew exactly what Simon was thinking.

"Shut up and watch the movie," Simon ordered, but he was grinning. They had moved into Jace's bedroom, and by tacit agreement had pulled the blankets off the bed and made a nest on the floor, the way they had for _Lord of the Rings_. Youtube had thoughtfully provided _Twilight_, in nine separate parts, and Simon was trying to be a little less hyperaware of Jace's body lying next to his.

It wasn't working.

When he wasn't sneaking glances at Jace – who was growing more and more confused and scandalised by the film ("Cloud cover is not enough to keep a vampire safe from sunlight. This is a ridiculous – is he _sparkling?_ SIMON. SIMON WHY DOES THE VAMPIRE SPARKLE? Raziel, Magnus took the bite, didn't he? Magnus is hiding in a small American town and glittering at teenage girls." "_Stupid_ teenage girls." "STAKE HIM BELLA!") Simon kept looking down at his left wrist. Every time he caught sight of the cuff it sent a jolt of nervous joy through him – a shot of something sweet and electric injected straight to the vein. The cuff was so _obvious_, impossible to miss – stark and black against his skin, the stars silvery and bright in contrast, and Simiel's crystal glimmer framed at the centre. It was beautiful, but beautiful the way Jace was, the way Simiel was: not feminine in the slightest. The clasps that held the seraph blade in place were elegant, and looked strong, but they would clearly come free in an instant if he needed to use Simiel to defend himself. It was like the concept of wedding-swords: even the jewellery Shadowhunters used to declare themselves romantically attached could become a weapon in an instant.

It was seriously cool.

He ran the thumb of his other hand over the soft leather. Obvious. Eye-catching. Even if worn with the all-black Shadowhunter hunting gear, the stars and Simiel's glitter would call attention to themselves. Nobody was supposed to miss its presence on his wrist.

When he looked up, he found Jace watching him, his eyes very bright. Without a word the blond reached out and took Simon's left hand – a breath, a pause, the slightest hesitation as if he wasn't sure he had permission to do so. Or maybe he just wasn't sure how to be with a guy yet, wasn't sure whether hand-holding was allowed, or if it was too girly and would insult Simon somehow.

Simon laced their fingers together firmly, and smiled.

)0(

He passed out somewhere around the baseball game, with Jace's appalled, hilarious commentary ("Baseball? They play BASEBALL?") lulling him to sleep.

And into dreams.

_It was a party, and Simon was at the centre of it, laughing as he and Jace whirled exhilaratingly over a floor of snowy marble, beneath chandeliers blossoming like crystal flowers. The room was a dazzling rainbow of people, men and women in green, silver, blue, crimson – jewel tones and pastels, and warm smiles flashing Simon's way like jewellery. Simon smiled back, recognising faces that he didn't know in the waking world. He was wearing a suit, and over his crisp white shirt his jacket was golden, embroidered with black runes. Jace was his mirror, his ebony suit ornamented with glittering golden Marks that flashed fire beneath the lights._

_Simiel shone like a diamond on Simon's wrist._

"_Happy to be here?" Jace asked, his gaze alight and warm._

"_I can't imagine being happier," Simon replied, grinning. He stopped them from dancing and stole a kiss, and heard fond laughter rise around them, even an approving wolf-whistle or two. _

"_Ahem."_

_They broke the kiss to that amused cough, and found Jocelyn standing beside them. She was a vision in green velvet, her red hair swept up over her head with a gleaming comb. "What?" she asked as they both looked at her. She was grinning. "Can't a mother congratulate her son on his _armaskō_ bond?"_

_Simon threw his arms around her. She hugged him back just as tightly. "Congrats, boyo," she whispered in his ear. "Make sure you keep this one, hm? He's gorgeous!"_

_He laughed. "I will," he assured her, reaching out his hand for Jace's. Jace squeezed back._

_Jocelyn smiled. "Smart boy." She held out an envelope to him, the fancy gold kind that Clary's relatives had all given her for her Bat Mitzvah. Simon took and opened it, with difficulty, one-handed, expecting a _Congratulations On Your Bond! _card. Jace peered over Simon's shoulder to see._

_As the envelope drifted to the ground, Simon was left holding the card from Dorothea's tarot deck – the Ace of Cups. He stared at it in confusion._

_Abruptly the card was plucked from his fingers, and Simon cried out with shock as the motion sliced a paper-cut on the pad of his index finger. Blood welled, and spilled: in the instant before the card vanished from his sight Simon's mind caught it like a snapshot, saw the painting's colours washed away by the blood, gone grey as stone as trickles of wet red traced music notes over the hand and the goblet..._

_As if he'd pricked himself on a cursed spinning wheel, cold fear flooded him. Jace's fingers slipped soundlessly from his grasp, and Simon looked up into familiar eyes gone dark with triumph._

"_Miss me?" Sebastian purred. Simon felt sick and dizzy, and the lights and sounds of the party faded away as Sebastian took Simon's right hand, now slick and red with blood that flowed like water, and raised it. He kissed Simon's bloodied fingers, and withdrew something from his pocket._

"_Where's Jace?" Simon could only manage a whisper. He was so weak that it was a struggle just to turn his head, and all he could see was darkness in every direction. But he could hear wind rushing past them, and he realised suddenly that he and Sebastian were somewhere very high up. They were standing on a platform about the size of a manhole cover. One wrong move would send them both plummeting. _

_He looked at Sebastian, panicking. The other boy smirked, and pushed what he held – a white _armaskō_ cuff – over Simon's hand and onto his wrist, ignoring the way Simon's wound left smears and streaks of bright red blood on it. It clamped down on Simon's arm like a manacle, and the seraph blade in it glittered like ice, like death._

"_No!" Simon shouted, his horror giving him new strength. He tried to wrench his arm free, but a silver chain unspooled from the white cuff as he did, a leash that ended in Sebastian's hand. He only laughed and used the chain to tug Simon close again, and Simon was cold and dizzy and terrified._

"_Yes," Sebastian breathed against Simon's ear, cruel and triumphant, and his voice was like a drug, like poison. Simon felt his bones melting, weak and helpless and sick with fear. "You're mine, Symeon – my beloved sacrifice."_

That's not my name,_ Simon tried to say, but his tongue was thick and heavy as lead in his mouth, and Sebastian was letting go of him, letting go and he pushed Simon back and Simon fell, down and down into the darkness, and he couldn't even scream as it swallowed him whole._

)0(

Simon jack-knifed upright, gasping for breath with the cry he couldn't make clogging his throat.

"Simon?" Jace lay tense beside him, taut as though ready to massacre the monsters in Simon's mind. Sunlight spilled across his face from the window, bright and sticky as honey – they'd slept late, Simon noted inanely. Jace pushed himself up and brushed his fingertips over Simon's arm. "You're awake now. It's done."

Not _it's over_. Not _it was just a dream. _Simon wondered about that as he caught his breath. Sebastian, the white cuff, the chain. _Symeon._ The name echoed inside him, struck his heart like a tuning fork, and the sound it made...

...Struck a chord and triggered another. Like falling dominoes a ripple of notes played through his mind, one after the other. He knew this song, had glimpsed it written out in blood in his dream...

He hummed softly, trying to sound it out aloud.

"What – " Jace began, but Simon flung up a hand to silence him, squeezing his eyes shut tightly so he could concentrate. The melody drew a bow over his heartstrings and played them like a violin, coaxing his focus inward, drawing him in like sirensong. There was a beat to it, a pulse that wove itself in with his own, and as the music sped so did his breathing. Soft, seductive, maddeningly familiar: Simon kept humming, desperate to embody the sound, to make it real and manifest. When Jace tried to speak Simon put his hands over his ears, shutting him out. Distantly he knew there was something strange in this, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to care about anything but the song in his head. He _knew _it, knew it somewhere deeper than conscious thought; it ached in his chest, in his fingertips, an orchestra of sighs and strings caught inside his skull like a flower in amber. If he could only get it _out_...

He swayed a little in time with the music, restless and energised. It wasn't enough: still with his eyes closed he shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the insect-bite of Jace's voice. He had to _move_, he had to _sing_, wordless though the song was; his spread his arms wide and spun, slowly, and then faster, deaf and blind to everything but the building, pulsing, throbbing music. It was demanding, frantic, a wild, burning urgency that was nearly sexual in its sheer _need_. Faster and faster, panting, his whole body clenched tight and the insistent music drowning out _everything_, the breath in his lungs and the beat in his chest – no, _using_ them, using his breath for the flutes and his pulse for the drums, his body was an instrument, the melody was playing itself on _him_, louder and louder until something snapped inside him and he could _see_ it, see it like a synesthesiac, a rainstorm of colours –

And the _shapes_ –

Everything stopped, guillotine-sharp. The silence was deafening.

"Simon?" Jace asked cautiously.

Simon opened his eyes. The shapes still hung in front of him, black and violet like the afterimage from staring into the sun. And when they faded from his sight, they were still stark and bright on the inside of his eyelids.

"I'm seeing runes." His voice emerged strangely even, far more calmly than he thought was appropriate.

"Which ones?"

That threw Simon for a moment: he'd expected a very different reaction. "I don't know," he said carefully. "They didn't introduce themselves. Sorry. Next time I'll have my butler ask for their cards!"

Jace, quite sensibly, ignored this. "Could you draw them?"

"I – I think so?"

Moments later, Simon felt his notebook being pushed into his hand. Swallowing hard, he flipped to a blank page and tried to keep his hand from shaking as he traced out the runes. He couldn't help seeing them as music notes; he shuddered as he wrote them down, feeling an echo of the melody they made whisper over his bones as they slid through him and onto the paper.

"What are they?" he whispered when he was done.

He didn't dare move as Jace – the blond stood to the left and slightly behind Simon, out of his line of sight – took the notebook from him. "I don't recognise them," Jace admitted. His voice was brittle. "How do _you _know them?"

"I don't. But I dreamed them." Simon closed his eyes again and tried to remember how to breathe: the runes were somehow black and also white, both at once, gleaming like stars inside his skull. "Only they were music notes, written in my blood."

He heard the notebook hit the floor, and then Jace's hand was on his shoulder, spinning him around. Simon's eyes came open and suddenly Jace's mouth was on his, hard and frantic. His fingers bit into Simon's hips like anchors, like lead weights to keep Simon from flying away and getting lost.

It only lasted a moment. Their lips separated, and Jace pressed their foreheads together. "You couldn't hear me," he said quietly. "I was shouting your name, and you couldn't hear me."

His voice didn't shake, but there were shards buried in it, razors and glass hidden beneath calm snow. They sliced at Simon, cutting and chilling, because Jace was right – Simon hadn't heard a thing.

He didn't know what to say, didn't know the song to ease the fear caught between them, or the magic words to banish the runes still glowing behind his eyes. He hugged Jace instead, and felt Jace hug back, as if he could keep Simon safe if he just held on tightly enough.

"Hodge will probably know what they mean," Jace murmured. "The Marks."

Simon felt an electric vibration pass through him, like a plucked string. He shivered. "Then let's go ask Hodge," he said softly.

)0(

The moment he walked into the kitchen, the room went quiet.

"No." Alec's eyes were too bright, and his voice too even. "You didn't."

Simon had almost forgotten the cuff; he glanced down at it and resisted the urge to hide his wrist behind his back. Suddenly it seemed to weigh ten stone. The room was brightly lit, the summer sun playing over the neat counters, the carving knives in their stand, the tidy wooden spice rack – and Simiel, flashing diamond-bright in a single ray of sunlight.

He'd been right. It _was_ impossible to miss.

"You _didn't_," Alec repeated – not a plea, but an outraged command that Jace tell him that he was hallucinating. That Simon was not wearing Jace's _armask__ō_ cuff.

"Alec," Isabelle said softly, but he ignored her, his gaze remaining fixed on his _parabatai_. Simon felt sick.

Jace's face was impassive. "I'm sorry if you don't approve."

"_Approve?_" Alec shoved his chair back violently, almost lunging to his feet. "You give your _armaskō_ to this _cæcus athumos_, and you expect me to – "

Jace hit him. Simon didn't even see him move, but suddenly Jace was on the other side of the room and Alec was on the ground, holding his bleeding nose and swearing by names and creatures Simon had never heard of.

"_Jace!_" Isabelle shouted, and Hodge was trying to restore order but everyone was ignoring him, Jace blazing with righteous fury like an angel of wrath and Isabelle yelling at Jace and Alec snarling and Simon – Simon just froze, unable to believe the chaos.

"I told you," Jace said softly, and it made no sense that Simon could hear him over all the noise but somehow, somehow he could, "never to call him that again."

It was too much. _Far _too much. Simon knew that Jace was shaken by what had happened in his room – by the music that had taken Simon over, and the strange runes he'd seen in its grip. But that didn't make hitting Alec any less ridiculous – Simon couldn't be offended by an insult he didn't even understand, and he was no damsel in distress who needed Jace to defend his honour _anyway_ and everyone was yelling and there wasn't _time_ for this alpha male posturing crap. Unnoticed by everyone, Simon stalked over to the counter, grabbed a saucepan, and slammed it against the counter.

"QUIET!"

They all shut up.

Simon glared at them. Only when he was sure he had their attention did he put the pan back in its place. "Now," he said quietly, "if you could all act your age, I'd appreciate it." He looked over at Hodge. The man was staring at Simon with a strange, almost shocked expression – as if he'd seen a ghost. It made Simon uncomfortable; sent his confidence skittering away and left him just a child again. "Um, Jace and I had something we wanted to ask you," he said lamely.

Hodge shook himself. "Yes, of course. What is it?"

Wordlessly, Jace pulled the page from Simon's notebook out of his pocket and handed it to his tutor. "What are these?"

Hodge took the paper carefully, as if he were handling a 500-year-old manuscript instead of a page torn from a spiral-bound notepad. Isabelle pulled a stele out of her pocket, but when she made to give her brother a healing rune Alec pushed her away.

"They do look familiar," Hodge said thoughtfully, as Alec got to his feet. Jace watched his _parabatai_, and Simon watched him: he might have been the only one to see the lost, tired look on Jace's face. It was gone in an instant. "I will have to do some research. Where did you say you saw them?"

Ignoring Isabelle's attempt at fussing, Alec's gaze cut across the room, his eyes two blue bolts that nearly knocked Simon back a pace. But Simon held his ground, even when the Shadowhunter moved away from his sister and stalked towards Simon. "We need to talk, mundane."

Jace stiffened, and even Hodge looked up from the runes, with a warning, "Alexander..."

"Alec, for Raziel's sake!" Isabelle cried angrily. "Let it go already!"

Sparks of white fire threaded through Simiel, wary and ready. Simon waved them all down – Isabelle, Hodge, Jace. The not-quite-consciousness that dwelled in his seraph blade. "It's fine. He's right, we do." He tried for casual, not sure how well he was succeeding. "Where?"

Alec jerked his head towards the door. As he cut past Simon, his shoulder brushed the singer's – not quite a shove, but not accidental either. Simon grit his teeth, counted to ten, and flashed Jace what he hoped was a reassuring smile before he turned and followed Alec out into the hallway.

He caught the low murmur of voices – Hodge questioning Jace about the runes – before Alec closed the kitchen door behind them.

"You said you were going to stay away from him."

_No air. Trying to breathe through the broken mess of his throat. Unable to scream as everything started going dark._ Simon suppressed a shudder. He couldn't quite force the memory away; suddenly he wished he hadn't been so quick to agree to this. He'd faced down vampires without flinching, but on the other hand, none of the vamps had gotten close to killing him.

Alec very nearly had.

"Doesn't Jace get a say in this?" Simon asked lightly.

"He's not thinking straight." Alec's eyes were bright and hard, and apparently blind to the irony of his statement. "He hasn't been since you showed up. This, this _insanity _– " His gaze flicked to Simiel and back to Simon's face, " – is just more proof that you're not good for him!"

"I don't think that's your call to make." Simon fought to keep his voice measured. "It's Jace's, and he's made his decision perfectly clear."

"It's not his decision to make!" Alec snapped. "Do you have _any idea_ what it means to wear that? What it means that he gave it to you, or what the Clave will do when they find out? You're – " He stopped. Reined himself in for a beat. Two. When he spoke again, he was calmer. "It's not too late," he said coaxingly. "You can give it back. You can walk away. You _must_ know that that would be better for everyone." He snorted. "Where do you think this can end? With Jace leaving the Shadow World for you, like some fairytale? Shadowhunting is his _life_. Giving it up would destroy him. But how could you know that? You've known him for a few days. You don't know him at all."

Simon thought about it. He thought about the flat, even tone of Jace's voice as he described his father's murder; the way he'd laughed at the Forsaken; the puzzled fondness at Simon's antics and pop culture references. He thought about being handed Simiel for the first time, and the look on the blond's face when Simon reached for the blade in the Bone City. Jace's whooping as the motorcycle plunged, the grace of his hands when applied to a piano or knife or a pair of chopsticks, the way Jace must have been _listening _to all those references, to give the manga-and-anime fan a surprise meal of sushi. He thought about how Jace had been the only one to promise that they would find Jocelyn, and how he hadn't hesitated a moment in going after Clary.

The way he'd pressed their foreheads together, when he was scared for Simon but couldn't admit it.

"I don't need to know his favourite colour to know _him_," Simon murmured. He sighed and slipped his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes. He and Jace had slept late, but Simon still felt tired. "You're right about one thing – I don't know where it's going to go. But you know what? That's for me and Jace to figure out, _not you_." He let his hand fall. "You – you can just _fuck off_, because what he and I do is _none of your God damn business!_"

He half expected Alec to attack him, but he didn't. Alec's china-pretty face twisted with disgust, instead – disgust and contempt, as if Simon were something sub-human. "You mundanes are completely selfish, aren't you? Have you no idea what he's done for you, what kind of personal risks he's taken? You almost got him killed last night, haring off after your friend like that, but it's more than his safety. He could lose _everything_ over this. Over _you _– he's already lost his parents; do you want to make sure he loses the family he's got left as well?" He stepped closer; Simon held his ground, refusing to move back, resisting the urge to bare his teeth and punch Alec in his smug, condescending nose.

"Jace is the scion of one of the First Families," Alec said lowly, "and the best Shadowhunter of our generation. And you? You are _nothing_. You don't know what it means to be one of us; you don't know what it means to be a Wayland. He has a responsibility to continue his bloodline, and if he doesn't the Clave will destroy him for it. Being with you will cost him _everything_, so if you even _think _you love him – if you even _like _him – you will give his _armask__ō_ back and walk away. You'll let him have the life he deserves; you'll let him find a Shadowhunter girl and be _happy_."

"Like you will, you mean?" And everything was bright and white and hot in his head, because how dare Alec? How _dare_ he? Simon had no idea if anything he said was true, and he was inclined to think that the bits that _were_ true were exaggerated because Alec wasn't exactly unbiased. But even if it were _all _true Alec had no right to try and drive Simon away. Not like this, behind Jace's back. Simon wasn't blind or stupid or oblivious, he wasn't so lacking in self-confidence that he couldn't _see_ how happy he made Jace, and for Alec to try and ruin that – "Are you going to find a nice girl to settle down with too, Alec? Or do you think that if I'm gone Jace might finally fall into bed with _you?_"

Alec _moved_, blindingly fast. His hands fisted in Simon's shirt and Simon's head cracked against the wall as Alec shoved him violently against it. Simiel blazed up and the white light cast shadows over Alec's face and pain burst like a rotten fruit in the back of Simon's skull and _no, no, not this again._ "You have no idea of the storm that will sweep you up, the moment the Clave hears of this," Alec hissed. "They will tear you apart. That's how this is going to end, Simon. Not with Jace joining your little boy band, not with you becoming a Shadowhunter. Because you can't, you don't have what it takes – you are _nothing_, you are _not worth him_ – "

Simon slammed his knee into Alec's crotch.

"I am not nothing," Simon snarled as Alec crumpled, clutching his family jewels and Simon would have been lying if he'd claimed not to feel a vicious, triumphant satisfaction in the sight. "And Jace and I – we might last ten years or ten minutes, but you know what, Alec? Right now, I make him happy. And if you try and compromise that, if you try and _hurt him like that_, I swear by Crom and Grayskull I will _end you_. I will show you exactlyhow _not nothing_ I am."

He knew Jace could take care of himself. He'd seen it dozens of times this week. But he remembered Jace's voice saying _It soaked my shoes_, thought of a ten year old watching his father die and a young man murmuring _you couldn't hear me_, and he _dared _Alec to mess with Jace's happiness. Dared him to even _try_.

"So stay the fuck out of it," Simon spat, his head pounding and his hands, his arms, his entire body _shaking_ with rage and excess adrenaline. But he wasn't so far gone as to kick Alec when he was down. Because Simon was his mother's son, he only walked around Alec, leaving him to deal with his bruised...ego in whatever way he saw fit. But he didn't head for the kitchen. He went to the staircase and took the steps two at a time, running up and up and up as if the clock had turned back and the werewolves from the Dumort were snapping at his heels.

)0(

"Can I come in?"

Simon looked up. "It's your room," he said lightly, lowering his iPad. "It would be a bit weird if I locked you out."

Jace softly closed the door behind him. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Simon shrugged. "Felt like it." As Jace crossed the room to come and sit beside him, Simon asked, "Did Hodge have any ideas about the runes?"

"Not yet. He's in the library now, researching. If he can't find anything on his own he'll contact some people." Jace leaned his head back against the wall with a tired sigh, closing his eyes. Then he tilted his head and squinted at the iPad. "What are you doing?"

"Reading." Simon angled the gadget so Jace could see. "I prefer paper books, but it's easier to carry my library around like _this _than as a pile of paperbacks, you know?"

"Paper bo – that's a _book?_" Jace's eyes snapped open all the way. "Explain."

Trying not to laugh, Simon briefly explained the concept of e-books, moving out of the book view (_HP & the Sorcerer's Stone_, his favourite comfort read) to show Jace his books. Apple's graphics showed the covers of each book on a pixelated bookshelf – the _Harry Potter_ series, _Game of Thrones_, _The Lies of Locke Lamora_, everything Lois McMaster Bujold had ever written alongside _The Golden Compass _and Emma Bull's _War for the Oaks_. That last was due for a re-read, Simon thought. He had a whole new sympathy for Eddi, a fellow musician dragged into a Shadow World of her own.

"This is incredible," Jace murmured, scrolling down. "And this search function – if we could put all of our esoteric books on something like this, Shadowhunters in the field could find information they needed in minutes, instead of having to spend days or weeks searching through the libraries."

Simon blinked. "That's – wow. _Yes_. You guys should do that!" He would never have thought of so practical an application. "It would be a lot of work in the beginning – you'd have to scan the books manually, and then format them – but the payoff would be so worth it."

Jace nodded. "We couldn't use them in Idris, of course," he said matter-of-factly, "but since most of our work takes place in the mundane world that wouldn't be an issue..."

"Why can't you use them in Idris?" Simon asked curiously.

Jace looked up from the screen. "Remember how I told you that if a mundane tried to enter Idris, they'd be transported to the other side? Well, it wouldn't do any good if we showed up on mundane satellites, now would it? So the same wards keep us hidden from mundane technology." He shrugged. "Which also means that things like electricity don't work within the borders."

Simon stared. "So you're saying that Shadowhunters live in a third-world country?"

"What? No." Jace looked confused. "Idris is seventh-world."

"I – you know what? I'm not going near that one."

Simon sat back and watched Jace explore the technology, musing, smiling. It really _had _been a good idea – and it had occurred to Jace nearly instantly. That razor-sharp intelligence...It tugged at Simon, made him ache with something soft and fond. He marvelled at this young man beside him, and couldn't blame Alec for wanting him too. Who wouldn't? Forget Jace's looks – although that was hard – who wouldn't be drawn to that quick mind, and his quicker tongue? His grace, his wry humour, his honour, his surprising gentleness. The hot, fierce flame of him; the vulnerability that showed itself in glints and glimmers, like silver fish in dark water, there and gone again in an instant. The fascinating, mesmerising duality of him, able to switch between facets like a spinning dreidel.

Maybe they would only last ten minutes. Maybe they'd tear each other apart in a conflagration like crashing comets. But Simon couldn't imagine regretting one single second of their time together.

"Enjoying the view?" Jace drawled, startling Simon out of his thoughts.

"Very much," Simon breathed. He shifted, placing one hand on the floor and leaning his weight on it, cupping Jace's cheek in his other palm. "I think it deserves a closer look, though..."

Simon tasted laughter on Jace's lips, and grinned into the kiss, but the amusement at the cheesy line slipped away when neither of them were paying attention.

New. This was...new. _They _were. Simon felt it, like something fragile and precious cupped in his hands: a Fabergé egg forged from Jace's breath and the sound of the iPad being put aside. The tight ache in the pit of Simon's stomach and the excited, glittering tenderness that was caught in his throat. Jace's fingers skimming over Simon's hair, lightly tracing the back of his neck. The gentle pressure of mouth-on-mouth, light and chaste and painfully, unbearably sweet. There was no urgency to it, no desperate fear or explosive lust. Desire simmered, but didn't overwhelm.

They didn't need it. This, just this, was enough to take Simon's breath away.

It felt like hours later that the kiss broke. The twinge in Simon's wrist brought him back to earth; he brushed his thumb over Jace's jaw and pulled away softly, as gently as he knew how.

One glance at Jace's expression made him want to lean back in and take the blond apart.

"What was that for?" Jace asked. His voice had gone husky.

"Do I need a reason?" He brushed his fingertips down the side of Jace's face, over his neck. "It's a really good idea, you know," he murmured. "The ebooks. You should submit it to somebody."

Jace shook his head and laughed softly. His eyes were bright. "Maybe I will." He broke their gaze to pick up the iPad and hand it back to Simon. "I actually came up here to bring you down to the training room. It's about time we got you kitted out."

Simon switched off the iPad and set it down. "Excuse me? Kitted out?"

Jace smirked.

)0(

"Hang on," Simon said wryly, "you've led us the wrong way. This is the costume wardrobe of a porn set."

Faster than Simon could see, Jace had hooked his fingers in Simon's belt loops and tugged him closer. Simon's body went from nought to sixty in about half a second, Jace's lips barely an inch from his and the wicked, _edible _smirk on them – "Are you complaining?" Jace purred. His breath slid over Simon's mouth and made his insides twist.

"That depends," Simon said, trying for blithe and knowing he'd failed utterly by the way Jace's smirk grew wider. "What's my safeword?"

"Safeword?" Simon was sure, suddenly, that Jace didn't know what that meant, but whether that was true or not the blond's smug expression never wavered. "Please." Jace's free hand came up; he pressed two fingertips to the side of Simon's chin and gently but firmly turned Simon's face aside. Simon's knees went weak, the possessive control just _wrecking_ him, even before Jace's lips brushed his ear.

"There's only one word you'll remember by the time I'm done with you," Jace breathed, low and fucking _sinful_ and the sound that came out of Simon's throat was most definitely _not _a whimper, nope, not a chance. "Can you guess what it is, Simon?"

He couldn't fucking _breathe_. "_Jace_," he gasped.

He felt Jace's lips curve against his ear. "Very good," he purred. "You get a gold star."

Which translated to a short, sharp nip to Simon's earlobe that nearly tore a moan out of him. And then Jace let him go, so abruptly that Simon nearly fell to his knees, all of him gone boneless and trembling – except for the desperately hard arousal that could have cut through steel. The room felt hot, hot and close, the air thick and heavy against his skin. He wanted to whimper. He wanted to _beg_.

Holy fucking Hell, Jace was _good_.

And he knew it too, smirking and smug as if Simon _had_ gone down on his knees, his eyes dark enough to drown in. Simon didn't want to think about what kind of mess he himself looked like just then. "Screw you," he managed. Breathless and hoarse.

"Eventually," Jace murmured, which was like dropping a lit match on a barrel of kerosene: Simon was a heartbeat away from spontaneous combustion. Jace grinned and, for a mercy, turned his back on Simon. "You get out of those clothes while I find something to fit you," he tossed over his shoulder.

Simon was going to self-combust and _die. _

The room Jace had brought him to opened off – or onto, depending on your perspective – the Institute's training room. Like the training room, its walls were covered in racks and shelves, but instead of weapons the chamber was full of black clothing – black shirts and black trousers, black dresses and skirts, black ankle boots and knee-high boots and combat boots bristling with buckles. There were gloves and gauntlets, belts and bracers, jackets and coats and vests. One glass cabinet featured accessories – silver bangles, necklaces with strange pendants, chokers of razor-sharp wire, rings glittering with unfamiliar stones, leather wristbands lined with steel to block a blow. Make-up compacts, lipsticks, bottles of nail varnish and perfume were arrayed next to them, which bemused Simon. Did Shadowhunter women consider make-up another kind of armour, or was the perfume Eau de l'eau bénite? It would be a pretty clever weapon, if so...

He took a deep breath and tried to keep his fingers from shaking as he undressed.

Stripping in the locker room was one thing, when your classmates were decent guys and everyone was moving quickly because there was a teacher waiting. Undressing in the same room as someone you were attracted to – while you were blindingly aroused, no less – was entirely different. Even with Jace's back to him, Simon was hyperaware of – of _everything _as he pulled his shirt over his head. Every inch of his skin. The tension in Jace's shoulders. The edges of the metal button that fastened his jeans.

"Not that I'm against it, but why am I getting kit now?" Simon asked raggedly. _Distract me, or I swear to God I'm going to jump you. _

"Because it's too dangerous for you not to have any," Jace said promptly, searching through the shelves. "Last night at the hotel...We got lucky. Next time we might not, and you're a lot less likely to be really hurt if you're in gear than if you're in denim." He pulled out a pair of trousers while Simon clumsily worked the fastening of his jeans.

"That's sweet," Simon teased. "You're being protective."

"I want you _safe_."

The intensity underscoring Jace's voice made Simon pause. _But you're not benching me,_ he thought, confusion touching fingertips with wonder. Instead of insisting that Simon be kept safe at home, Jace talked about _next time_; at the mention of danger he found Simon armour instead of banishing him out of harm's way. Was it a cultural thing, was that how Shadowhunters dealt with each other? Or was it respect – did Jace want Simon standing beside him again the next time they faced down a pack of vampires?

Either way, the thought of the Dumort was enough to make his erection go down. With some focus. Which was a relief, because Jace turned back around just as Simon was finally stepping out of his jeans, and it took a superhuman effort to stay in control of himself.

_Screw you._

_Eventually._

He swallowed hard and straightened, wearing only his boxers and the _armask__ō _cuff. He'd never been ashamed of his body, and he wasn't now, but Jace's gaze was almost tangible, there was greedy heat in it, and it was so damn hard not to _want_.

"Are those for me?" he asked, nodding at the clothes in Jace's arms.

"Well, they _were_," Jace drawled, dragging his eyes up to Simon's face. "But now I'm reconsidering giving them to you."

_Breathe, Simon, breathe. _"Gimme," Simon ordered, trying not to grin and failing. "You can't promise presents and then not deliver."

Jace snorted, but came closer obediently, a mess of black leather hugged to his chest. His eyes dropped from Simon's face again, the gold in them molten in a way that made Simon's stomach clench and his mouth go dry. "Like what you see?" he murmured.

He already knew the answer. Simon had no six pack and no tan, was comfortably skinny instead of ripped and toned, but Jace wanted him.

And why wouldn't he? Simon was freaking _awesome_. He could tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue and everything.

Jace just grinned. "Let's get you dressed."

The implication that Jace was going to help with that was not a false one. The blond assured Simon that the gear was designed to be easy to get on and remove quickly and easily, but there were a lot of pieces that needed to go on in the right order. And Jace might just have been abusing the situation to get his hands on Simon's skin. Just a little bit.

It was hard to concentrate with Jace standing so close, with Simon almost-naked. With the calluses on Jace's fingertips reminding him of the music room, and the silence – because what was there to say while you dressed? – thick and taut and loud.

_Focus on the clothes, Fray._

And they did require a great deal of focus. First on was a t-shirt of a soft, thick, stretchy material, skin-tight and breathable; over that went a leather vest that zipped up to his neck, its high collar lined with crystalline chainmail to protect Simon's throat. Pads of the same Kevlar-like substance that reinforced the vest guarded his knees and groin beneath the black cargo pants, and two snug belts went cross-wise around his hips, bristling with buttons and loops and buckles that Jace explained were for attaching sheaths and pouches to. The gloves left his fingertips bare, for greater dexterity, and ran a line of something thick and hard along the back of each finger – both protecting the fragile digits and reinforcing his fist if he decided to punch someone. From the base of his fingers to just below his elbow a pair of tooled leather vambraces shielded his arms; lined with cool metal, with a layer of soft suede against his skin, they zipped up like the vest. The left-arm one had a metal setting for a seraph blade, just like an _armask__ō_ cuff.

Simiel slipped into place as if it belonged there.

It took some time. Some of the bits and pieces didn't fit quite right and had to be swapped out for different sizes. Jace's hands teased and tortured, and Simon wasn't sure how he resisted grabbing the back of Jace's neck and dragging him into the kind of kiss you didn't end in a hurry. He stood still like a mannequin, his hands fisted, breathing through his nose because to give in was to let Jace win, and he was too stubborn to give in.

Although his control was shot all to hell when Jace _went down on his knees_.

"What are you doing?" Simon demanded, ragged and already breathing faster as Jace beamed up at him innocently.

"Your boots," the blond reminded him.

Boots. Sure. Simon couldn't remember what that word meant, couldn't think of anything except Jace's hands curling around his calf, urging his leg up so they could get the boot on. Jace's mouth, so insanely close to Simon's cock – all he would have to do is lean forward a little and he'd have his lips on Simon's inseam –

He wondered if the designers of this gear had intended for the groin-guard to hide inappropriate erections as well as protect against the kind of attack Simon had used on Alec earlier. Whether they had or not, Simon was grateful for them, because Jace's palms slid up to the back of Simon's thigh and Simon was going to _expire_. With a great deal of fire and some really cool special effects, but still, he would be dead, he was going to have a heart attack and _die_ because no one was supposed to be this hot. Jace helped his foot into the boot and Simon couldn't get the thought out of his head, couldn't stop imagining Jace's mouth wrapped around his cock with that self-satisfied smirk.

_Oh holy Iron Man._ No wait, bad thought, he was pretty sure he knew what Tony Stark would do in this situation –

"You all right there, Simon?" Jace asked sweetly.

Simon swallowed a groan. "Perfectly fine," he managed. "Just...peachy."

"Glad to hear it. Other foot, please."

The same torture ensued with the other boot. Simon's self-control was fracturing by the time Jace finally fastened the last buckle.

And then his hands slid up – and up – and _up_, until they were stroking over Simon's thighs –

"Just tucking these in," Jace murmured, not waiting for Simon to ask _what are you DOING _this time. He pushed Simon's trousers into the boots, tucking them in snugly so that nothing would billow or catch on anything – but the boots weren't even knee-high, there was no need for Jace's hands to have wandered up so far...

Unless he was trying to kill Simon. Which was a distinct possibility at this point.

Jace curled his palms around the back of Simon's knees. Smirking up at him as if he could hear Simon's thoughts, the blond leaned forward and – and –

Fucking _nipped Simon's thigh_ –

Simon's brain shattered. He hissed and his hips jerked at the sharp pleasure-pain, at the bolt of white lightning that seared him from skull to cock. He grabbed for Jace's hair but the damn _bastard _was already unfolding to his feet, all playful and mock-innocent as if Simon couldn't see the smug heat in his eyes.

"Nearly done," Jace breathed.

"No," Simon growled. "You're done _now_." He fisted his hand in Jace's hair and jerked him in, crushed their lips together and savour-swallowed Jace's gasp of surprise. The cooling rods went up in smoke and it was on, nuclear meltdown and Jace surged into him, raking his fingers through Simon's hair, over his back, grasping his hips, unable to reach skin through Simon's gear. He made a sound of frustration and Simon just laughed into the kiss, low and husky. He held Jace's head still by his hair, licking into his mouth and forcing him to take it, drinking down the blond's thick groan. Jace was shuddering, shaking; he tore at the zipper of Simon's vest desperately and Simon smirked, slipped his free hand under Jace's shirt and dragged the rough palm of his glove over the blond's skin, bit at Jace's lip and Jace was tearing at him, shoving the vest open until it caught on Simon's shoulders. One of them snarled; Simon broke the kiss for just long enough to shrug the vest to the floor before diving back in, catching Jace's mouth hungrily, catching his hair again. Jace's hands were hot through his shirt, grasping at him, pushing Simon's shirt up to get at his skin; Simon yanked Jace bodily against him, slid his hand under Jace's shirt and rested it at the small of Jace's back, holding him close and stilling him.

"Not so fast," Simon purred. He still had his hand in Jace's hair; he wrenched the blond's head back, forcing his throat into an arch that Simon couldn't resist. He dropped his mouth to it, brushing his lips over Jace's pulse and shivering at the sound Jace made. "Do you remember that four am phone call?"

"The – " Simon bit down on the blond's throat delicately, and Jace's hips bucked, a hiss tearing through his teeth. "By the _Angel_, how can that possibly be relevant?"

Simon smirked. Lifting his head from Jace's neck – revelling in the curve of his throat and his forced stillness and his quick, harsh pants – Simon tightened his grip in Jace's hair. Slowly, deliberately, he ground into Jace's hips and touched his lips to Jace's ear.

"Because I can tease too," he breathed – and let go. He put his hand on Jace's chest and _shoved_, watching Jace stumble with a mixture of loss and wild, vicious satisfaction. "Now, is that all of it?"

Jace stared at him, his gold eyes gone bronze, dark and dazed and smouldering. "What?"

Simon grinned and gestured at himself. "The clothes. Is this all of them?"

"...No." The Shadowhunter breathed in deeply through his nose and dragged his eyes away. "Put the vest back on."

Simon did so, not bothering to hide the brandy-burn smugness warm and rich under his skin. By the time he was done Jace had a leather jacket waiting for him, and Simon whistled playfully. "_Nice_."

Jace rolled his eyes. "Arms," he ordered. Simon obediently held them out, submitting to Jace's revenge – shivering, but still grinning as Jace's hands slid over Simon's upper arms, tugging the sleeve into place. Jace stepped behind him, and his lips brushed the back of Simon's neck, the sensitive line where his hair began.

"There you go," he murmured. "All done."

_Breathe, Fray. _Simon licked his lips and swung his arms a little, testing the jacket. He'd never owned anything like it, but yeah, _this_ was how demon hunters were supposed to dress. He had to bite back a giddy laugh, an almost childish, preening excitement coming over him. "Leather vests, leather boots, leather jackets – you guys must go through a lot of cows."

Jace laughed softly, nuzzling Simon's jaw. There was hunger in it, enough to make Simon swallow hard, but there was something lighter too. "Why would we use cow leather?" he asked. Fondly amused. _You ridiculous mundanes and your crazy ideas..._ "It's dragon."

"Dra – oh, no freaking way. I'm _wearing a dragon?!_" There was not much that could make Simon forget about sex, with his insanely hot boyfriend (was that an appropriate term?) plastered against his back. But dragons would do it. "Holy fucking _smokes_, Batman! Are you _serious?!_")

Jace laughed and laughed and laughed.

* * *

NOTES

_Cæcus_ is Latin for 'blind'. In context, as a Nephilim insult, Alec is calling Simon a 'blind [to the Shadow World] spiritless creature'.

Eau de l'eau bénite – holy water perfume. I THINK. If my translation skills have failed utterly, please correct me!


	21. Chapter 21

This was shaping up to be more than twice as long as my usual chapters, so my beta convinced me to split it in two. Thus, part 2 is very nearly done, because I was treating it all as one thing, and this chapter is a little longer than average but not by too much.

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I really hope you enjoy this one, and part 2 should be up soon!

* * *

They did make it to the training room eventually. Or rather, Jace rolled his eyes and finally pulled Simon bodily into the other room, because Simon was still stroking his jacket and crooning to it.

"I shall call him Smokey, and he shall be mine, and he shall be my Smokey," Simon declared. "Because dragons breathe fire," he told Jace confidingly, as if Jace might not know. "And also because I am sure I look _smoking_ in this thing."

"You really do," Jace murmured, the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

Simon grinned at him and blew a kiss. "You say the _sweetest_ things, sugarplum," he cooed, and cackled when Jace choked. "Your _face!_" he crowed.

Jace growled, but his lips kept trying to curve upwards. Finally he gave up, snorting out a laugh. "Seraphs, why do I put up with you?"

"It's my animal sex appeal," Simon replied instantly. "You can't resist it. Everyone wants to tap this fine ass." He grinned. "Now are we gonna spar or what?"

_Or what_, it seemed. Jace spent minutes instructing Simon on how to affix a variety of weaponry about his person: clearly whoever designed the armour expected their models to be walking armouries. The belts were obviously intended to be weighed down with sharp pointy things of all kinds, but there were also hidden sheaths on the insides of his vambraces, and slots in his boots for another pair of knives, and almost two dozen secret pockets in Smokey, meant for all kinds of deadly goodies.

To be honest, Simon started tuning it out after a bit, his mind wandering back to the awesomeness of his new jacket. It really _was _an incredibly badass piece of clothing. It was lined with black silk, with a soft hood for when it was necessary to be sneaky, and like his pants the jacket had a number of Kevlar-like panels sewn into it, front and back, and curved ones over his shoulders. Not that you could tell – they were completely invisible from the outside. If Simon hadn't been able to feel the weight of them, he'd never have believed Jace's insistence that they were there at all. Jace had pushed up Smokey's sleeves, tucking the cuffs beneath Simon's vambraces so that Simiel was both visible and within easy reach, and the sleeves themselves... Under the training room's lights, Simon could just make out the shadow of scales, iridescent like sunlight on oil when the light hit them just right – shimmering sapphire blue and rich green like raven feathers.

It was _awesome_.

"You know," he interrupted, taking a wary step back from where Jace was brandishing a wicked-looking dagger, "there is _no point _in giving me a lot of dangerous pointy things. I don't know how to use any of them. At best I'm going to poke my own eye out. And then everyone's going to be sad."

"Not at all, cupcake," Jace said sweetly, grinning wickedly at Simon's inadvertent look of horror. "That's what we're here for – so you can learn how to use them." He flipped the blade between his fingers, careless of its light-fracturing edges.

"Careful there, pumpkin," Simon said lightly. "You can't finger me without fingers."

Jace dropped the knife. The sudden surge of almost vicious lust that flashed across his face made Simon's breath catch, pinned in place as surely as if Jace had put the dagger through _him_.

The blond took a deep breath and bent to retrieve the knife. "Don't do that," he said huskily, "while I'm holding a weapon."

"But you're so sexy surrounded by sharp things," Simon murmured, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt dazed, and more than a little bit breathless still. He caught himself staring at Jace's mouth, and looked away, a crazy cocktail of lust and joy bubbling up and out of his throat in a little laugh. "Damn, we're awesome."

Jace rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. "When you're done stroking your ego, this is supposed to be a lesson."

_In sexual frustration? _Simon thought, swallowing the quip with effort. Jace was talking.

"For any of these – " Jace gestured at the weapons covering the training room's walls, " – you would need training that I don't have time to give you. So we're going to stick to seraph blades."

He produced four of the crystal dowels that were by now familiar sights, laying them out on the table for Simon to inspect. "Theliel, Sandalphon, Israfel, and Anael," he said quietly. Each one glowed briefly in response to its name before dimming again. "These are all unbonded – they _were_ unnamed, but since you probably don't know your angels I took the liberty of naming them for you."

"Thanks." Simon picked up Israfel, felt it cool and solid against his fingers. "And is there any significance to their names?" he asked with a wry grin, remembering the secret behind Simiel.

If Jace was thinking the same thing, he didn't look repentant. He smiled to himself. "You can look them up later."

Simon's eyebrows went up, instantly curious, but he didn't push it. It was exciting, a little mystery offered with a smile, a secret between – what were they, anyway? _Boyfriends_ sounded too shallow, and _lovers _too deep. "Israfel," he said softly, gripping the hilt more tightly as the blade sprang free. "Is there a Shadowhunter word for us? For...boyfriends?"

Jace glanced at him, his eyes gone sharp and intent. "I suppose at the moment you could call it _shud__ō_," he said ironically, although Simon didn't understand what the joke was supposed to be. "But the words you want are _erastes_ and _eromenos_. Lover and beloved."

_Lover and beloved._

Oh.

Wow.

Simon...had no idea what to do with that.

"Who's who?" he finally managed.

Jace smirked, so deliciously arrogant that Simon's cock twitched behind the groin-guard, and his stomach twisted. "Oh, I'm definitely the _erastes_," he purred. He moved forward, driving Simon back until he met the table – and then Jace was pressing against him, laying his hands on either side of Simon's hips, caging him in and Simon's heart was pounding. He dropped Israfel beside the other seraph blades and clutched at the edge of the table as his knees went weak and yeah, okay, his dick was very much paying attention now. Jace dipped his head, brushing his lips over Simon's throat, and Simon groaned, tipping his head back to give the blond access.

"And when all this is over," Jace breathed, dragging his teeth over Simon's Adam's apple, "we're going to play a little game called _harpagmos_."

Simon hissed out a breath as Jace's lips found the underside of his jaw. "Oh?" He lifted his hand and fisted it in Jace's hair, urging him on. "How do you play?"

He felt Jace smirk. "It's very simple. In fact, _you _don't have to do anything at all. But at some point, when you're least expecting it..." He bit down, and Simon gasped, his knuckles going white in Jace's hair. "I'll strike," Jace murmured, low and husky. "And take you. Make off with you, _abduct_ you. On your walk to school, at your band practise – maybe even while you're asleep in bed. You'll wake up with my hand over your mouth, and I'll steal you away."

Simon was shaking. He couldn't breathe, his arousal so thick and hot that he was sure he'd shatter, sure he'd come in his pants if Jace gave him the slightest bit of friction. He _ached_. "You kinky bastard," he gasped.

Jace laughed softly. "You have no idea." He kissed Simon's jaw and pulled away completely, his eyes glittering with suppressed mirth. "Now why don't you get a feel for your new blades while I go change?"

He was gone before Simon could protest, a golden-haired blur, and Simon couldn't decide whether he wanted to strangle Jace or fuck him. Really? Jace expected him to be able to focus? When Jace was stripping almost-naked on the other side of the door...? Simon glanced at the four new seraph blades, but didn't move to pick them up: he knew he would only end up losing a finger if he tried them out now.

Instead he leaned back against the table and folded his arms over his chest, closing his eyes as he pictured it. They'd dressed separately that morning, in the bathroom when they'd taken turns with the shower, so Simon had yet to see Jace naked. But they'd been shirtless last night in the music room, and Simon wouldn't forget that sight in a hurry. All that golden skin drawn tight over hard muscle... He swallowed hard.

"This isn't naptime, Sleeping Beauty."

Simon's eyes snapped open at the warm amusement. "See now, _that _is something you have to teach me."

Jace grinned. "Sorry, sweetiepie. You have to be born this good looking." He ducked Simon's playful swipe, laughing.

"_No_, you arrogant ass!" Simon growled, trying not to laugh with him. "The ninja walk. I never hear you coming."

"On the contrary," Jace said lightly, his eyes glittering, "you heard me come just last night."

Simon sucked in a breath, liquid heat slamming into him at the reminder, the damn _memory _of the night before, Jace's soft hiss of pleasure and his eyelids fluttering as he spilled all over Simon's fingers – "You're evil, you know that?"

Jace just grinned, and Simon tried to remember how to breathe. Seeking a distraction, he ran his eyes over Jace's clothes, and frowned. "You're missing a few pieces, aren't you?"

In fact, Jace's outfit was very different to the one he'd put Simon in. The blond's trousers were tighter, for one thing, and he only had one belt to Simon's two. But most obvious was the lack of armour – Jace wasn't wearing a vest, dragon-leather or otherwise, and no vambraces, either. Beneath an incredibly sexy leather jacket he wore only a black cotton t-shirt.

Jace looked bad-ass and sexy, like something straight out of one of Simon's fantasies – but he didn't look _safe_.

In all senses of the word. Mothers must shepherd their daughters to the other side of the street when they saw Jace coming, looking like that. Simon grinned at the thought.

Jace gave him an odd look, but didn't ask. "My gear is personalised. My fighting style focuses on my speed, so the less I'm weighed down the better. You, on the other hand, need all the protection you can get. Now let's show you how to use your blades."

Sighing, Simon picked up Sandalphon. "Stick them with the pointy end?"

"In essence," Jace agreed, clearly amused.

He had Simon holster Anael, Theliel and Israfel at his belts, and then the two boys moved to the centre of the room, excitement churning in Simon's gut.

Jace drew a seraph sword of his own. He invoked it with a quick "Rachiel," and the blade snapped out like the fang of one of Dr. Ernest Drake's frost dragons. Simon mimicked him, murmuring Sandalphon's name so that it too splintered into the world.

"Fighting against most bi-pedal demons – when they don't or can't use magic against you – is a little like going up against a very good knife fighter," Jace told him. "Stand straighter – there, like that. Except that your average demon has ten or twenty knives instead of just one. But the skills that will get you through a knife fight apply equally well to fighting demons."

Quick reflexes; flexibility; and serenity. "You can't be afraid, but you can't be too brave, either," Jace instructed. "You have to be calm. It's inside of you: Shadowhunters are bred for this. We have been for a thousand years. The most important thing is to get out of your own way."

And physical endurance, Simon thought, remembering how out of breath he'd gotten, running from Valentine's Shadowhunters at his apartment. But that was going to take time to build up. Would he be here long enough to grow fit? It was like ice touching the back of his neck, the thought of staying at the Institute for months on end: not because he didn't want to – although he didn't, not really – but because it would mean that months from now they still wouldn't have found his mom.

_No. We'll find her._ No other option was acceptable.

"The first step is knowing your weapon." Jace glanced at Sandalphon. "Unbonded seraph blades should always be a last resort; they aren't connected to you the way a bonded blade is."

Simon obediently switched Sandalphon for Simiel, while Jace explained that it was difficult to go wrong with a bonded blade. "Anyone who says that a weapon is an extension of your hand or arm is an idiot," Jace said bluntly. "Fighting bare-handed is completely different to fighting with a knife. Or it should be, if you want to survive it." But seraph blades – bonded ones – were responsive, almost alive. They were more than just cold lumps of crystal, they worked _with_ you, although Jace couldn't really explain it; he waved his hand dismissively when Simon asked. "Those are questions for the Iron Sisters. I just kill things." It was also, apparently, hard to be disarmed or lose a bonded blade in battle, and Simon remembered how Simiel had moved into his fingers when he'd dropped it at the Dumort, rolling an inch or two closer until he could grab it.

Jace demonstrated – a little smugly, Simon thought – how it was possible to manipulate a seraph sword's blade. He retracted and extended Rachiel's blade again and again, making it manifest in different shapes and lengths: a short, triangular knife; a kind of thin scimitar; a stiletto; something Jace called a _kris_, which had a long wavy blade like a serpent caught in crystal; and then back to what Simon thought of as the default setting, a little longer than the distance from elbow to the tip of the middle finger, and very slightly curved.

"Teach me how to do that," Simon ordered.

Jace grinned. "Maybe later. Right now you don't need to learn the flashy extras, just how not to get killed." He altered his stance, and Simon, realising that he had slumped out of his, corrected himself, mimicking Jace as best he could. "Which you will only learn by doing, so – attack me."

_Get out of your own way. Don't think. _But it was nearly impossible not to think; Simon and Clary had tried it once, prompted by a discussion in RE at St Xavier's. Neither of them could manage a perfect blankness for more than a few seconds, and even that had been a struggle.

He glanced at Jace warily. How had he done it before? Anger, it had been anger, hadn't it? Jace had said –

_ Do you think Valentine _listens_, when your mother begs him not to –_

He didn't unlock the door into the place that was glass and ice: he blew the door _down_. Rage exploded within him, dynamite blasting through the walls in his mind and it was white-out, gone, done, he whipped his arm out for Jace's unprotected chest and felt the connection before he heard it, felt the heavy _clang_ up through his arm and in his chest as Rachiel blocked Simiel and the two blades sang a love-song to each other.

Jace grinned.

Simon didn't. His head was full of static and snow and he was already moving, silent, quick, time was a virus multiplying into infinity and he was the cure. Jace was sand in the wind and Simon was a blizzard, ice and hailstones crashing into amber, Simiel and Rachiel exchanging windchime kisses that tasted of razors: _clash, crash, sing_. The unfamiliar weights of his vambraces suddenly made sense, his body understood how to accommodate the new boots and the plating in his jacket and vest, moved with them and used them. Instincts snapped out like a hand of cards fanning, spades eights royal flush and he twisted into Jace's attacks, catching Rachiel on his vambraces and turning the seraph blade aside again and again – clumsily, unpractised, but finesse was irrelevant when blunt simplicity worked just as well, and fury was a whetstone.

_ Mom. Valentine. _There were no words, no conscious thoughts, but the emotional hieroglyphs for _mother-family-love-Jocelyn_ and _fear-hate-enemy_ flashed through him. No, it was deeper than that, worse than that; he and Jace circled and darted and skipped lightly away from each other and it was more than just fear, more than just hate. Someone had kidnapped Simon's mother; and not just anyone, but a megalomaniac who thought Downworlders like Kaelie and Magnus needed to be exterminated, someone who sent Ravener demons and Forsaken to kill a seventeen year old boy. Someone who maybe – probably – was torturing Jocelyn to find out where the Cup was.

_ Do you think Valentine _listens_, when your mother begs him not to –_

Fear, hate – try _terror_, try _loathing_, try horror and panic and desperate _please don't kill my mom_; try _helplessness_ and _abhorrence_ and **_rage_**, a rage that was too big, too raw, too shriekingly agonising to hold inside. His skin was splitting at the seams, his veins charred black by lightning, he wanted to drop to his knees and scream and he wanted to cut Valentine's heart out: _I hate you, I hate you I hate you **I hate you!**_ Faster and faster and faster, not cold and clean but hot and bright, searing, screaming, snarling as he struck and struck and struck. Jace was faster, smoother, wind and smoke to Simon's rockslide and Simon barely touched him, couldn't catch him and the frustration only sent him further and further away from words, from the world, from time, further and further out of his body's way.

He watched Jace. No – he _mirrored_ Jace, mimicked him, saw what the blond did and absorbed it and sent it back. Hold your spine like this; angle the strike like this; chin, eyes, sweep of your arm, weight spread evenly on the balls of your feet so you can lunge in and dart back on an instant's notice. Instinct and even mimicry was no substitute for practise and training, Simon understood that bone-deep, knew his was only a flawed reflection of Jace's skill, and yet –

And yet.

And yet he made himself a mirror, an empty glass half-full of hate, let go and _moved_ and the anger, God, the anger – it was like a pure note struck on silver, a perfect chord, it was breath and song and _power_. Elemental, unstoppable, a river, an avalanche, a storm, Jace's fist and the flat of Rachiel's blade hit him again and again but less often the longer the duel went on. Seconds were hours, minutes were days, and there was no pattern, Jace's attacks were pure chaos until they weren't, until it clicked, until Simon saw it like a two mirrors facing each other, reflecting each other into eternity. Act and react, push and pull and drive, frostburn-light splintering off their seraph blades and in their eyes and _I hate you_, _mom, give her back don't**hurt**her! _

He was going to scream, going to burst, going to break, he was a hollow thing about to collapse in on itself and he was too full to survive, a bomb ticking down and a grenade kissing its pin goodbye and he couldn't take it, the power felt so good but he couldn't _take _it, _I hate you I hate you I hate you give her **back**, give her BACK!_

_ If you hurt her –_

_ If you have hurt my mom I will never stop –_

_ I will give up music and dedicate everything to Simiel –_

_ I will train –_

_ And learn –_

_ And hunt you down if it takes fifty years –_

_ And I will **RIP YOU APART!**_

It burst out of him in a roar, an earthquake-snarl like a screamer song and inside Simon's head there was a shriek like nails on a chalkboard times a thousand. The mirror he had made of himself shattered, and Simon stumbled, gasping, gut-punched somewhere far deeper than his stomach.

Jace pulled his blow instantly, his free hand catching Simon's wrist, the one that held Simiel. "What's wrong?"

"I – " Simon's bones had turned to water. "I have to sit down."

Worried now, Jace helped him sit, taking Simiel from Simon's fingers before he could drop it. Simon barely noticed relinquishing the blade. He was shaking. It felt like something vital inside him had come loose from its mooring, his liver or lungs like stones rattling in an empty box.

"Simon?" Jace's palm cupped Simon's jaw. "Talk to me."

"I'm not sure how," Simon said numbly. "I – that was – " He thought he might be sick. He had never been a violent person. Not like that. He could still taste the violent exultation of the power that had run through him, lighting him up like a walking talking sun; the vicious _yes_-ness at the thought of ripping another human being into bloody shreds. It had felt so good. So _right._ If Valentine had been in front of him in that moment –

He had no problem with killing the man who'd kidnapped Jocelyn. If that proved necessary then he would do it, and he hoped that he wouldn't hesitate. He would put evil down like a rabid dog, quick and clean.

But to _glory _in it – a bullet to the brain was one thing, but ripping – tearing – that was something else. Something _sick_.

The thought of it had been _so good_.

"I wanted to kill," he confessed softly. "Valentine. I wanted to find him and kill him. Rip him into pieces. And it felt – it felt like a song," he finished helplessly, not knowing how else to say it. It sounded stupid and inane but his mind refused to offer up any other comparisons. _Perfect. Right, the way only music can be. _

_No,_ he thought suddenly, with a flicker of nausea. _Perfect like a kiss._ Like black velvet and firelight on bare skin. Like the most natural thing in the world, as if slaughter was as good and right as kissing Jace.

He looked up at the blond. "You said Shadowhunters are bred for this," he whispered. "Is this what you meant?"

_Not human. _Simon wasn't sure if he believed the Shadowhunter creation story, couldn't quite accept that there was angel blood in his veins. That was – that was just insane, and too big for his mind to grasp. He hadn't had a chance yet to sit down and think about what the existence of Nephilim meant about angels and Heaven and God, but when he did his brain was probably going to explode.

But putting that enormous metaphysical question aside for a minute – whatever was running through his veins, it wasn't human blood. And up till now Simon had thought that was weird but also pretty freaking cool, in a very _Harry Potter_-esque way. _Y'er a wizard, Harry._

Except – except that all myths had a grain of truth in them somewhere. The Shadowhunter myth was that an angel had created them; whether that was literally true or not, angels were – terrible. He thought of that line from _The Prophecy_ again:_ 'Whenever God needed to punish someone, or make an example, or whenever God needed a killing, he sent an angel. Did you ever wonder what a creature like that must be like? A whole existence spent praising your God, but always with one wing dipped in blood. Would you ever really want to see an angel?'_

_That_ was what was inside him. Literally, or as a metaphor for something humans hadn't had words for a thousand years ago – something that might be even worse. The runes in his dream, the music that had taken him over this morning, the murderous rage just now – suddenly being a wizard was more than snowy owls and flying broomsticks; he felt like Harry being told that only dark wizards spoke Parseltongue.

But Jace shook his head. "We're not monsters, Simon. We kill the monsters."

As simple and perfect as a solved equation.

"That's what we've been bred for. To be the best possible guardians of our world." Jace tapped his fingertip against Simon's forehead, gently. "Part of that is in here. The skill and language centres in our brains are bigger than they are in mundanes. _They_ learn quickly while they're young, but we can keep learning forever. That's what you started doing a minute ago – you were mimicking me the way a child copies its parents when it's learning to walk. Only faster."

His fingertip slid under Simon's chin, tipping his face up to Jace's. "That ability comes from your Shadowhunter blood," the blond said softly, his eyes burning. "But you're still human, and wanting revenge – that's part of being human."

Simon didn't say anything for a minute. "Do you think that because it's true," he asked finally, quietly, "or because if it's not, that makes you a monster too?"

Jace's expression didn't flicker. "Because it's true," he said without hesitation. He leaned in, but Simon's hand shot up, catching Jace's shoulder.

"Don't distract me with kisses." Simon bit back his anger, kept his voice low and controlled, because everyone made mistakes. It was when your boyfr – your _erastes_ kept making the _same_ mistakes, over and over, that there was a problem. But the first one was free. "I'm not one of your nothing-girls that'll swoon whenever you bat your eyelashes. If – if something I say makes you uncomfortable, then _tell me_. Don't brush it off and try to distract me. Don't brush _me_ off. That – that is a seriously crap relationship protocol. Okay?"

Jace's eyes were wide; he looked so stunned that Simon genuinely wondered if anyone had ever rejected him before.

"Okay?" Simon prodded.

Jace nodded slowly.

"Good." Simon let go of Jace's shoulder and sighed. "Revenge is not a cool thing. Just look at what it did to the Winchesters. John – mmf!"

Jace's lips came down on his, hard and urgent. Simon's indignation dissolved like a dandelion in the wind, unable to resist the storm in Jace; the blond's hands tangled themselves in Simon's hair, his tongue sweeping into Simon's mouth hungrily, desperately, without finesse. It didn't matter; it was _Jace_, who was so insanely sexy that he could probably turn a nun to sin just by flashing his ankles at her, and he kissed Simon until the singer couldn't breathe.

Jace's lips left his at last, but he didn't go far. He was so close that Simon could taste his breath, feel his short, hard pants washing over Simon's lips, slipping between them and down his throat. Into his lungs, and into his blood. "You're incredible," Jace whispered, and Simon's heart stuttered at the fervency in his voice, the almost painful _ache_ in it.

"Of course I am," he said flippantly, to cover his – it felt like shock, but sweeter, sharper. As if the floor had vanished from beneath his feet, but instead of falling he flew. "Did you only just realise? Clearly you're blind, we should get your eyes checked."

Jace laughed into another kiss.

"Come on," he said after, getting to his feet and pulling Simon up after him. "Let's see if you can really hit me this time."

)0(

He couldn't.

They went at it for almost an hour, but Simon couldn't make himself slip into the ninja mindspace again.

"It's called a battle trance, it's a sign of Raziel's blessing, _it has nothing to do with ninjas._"

Also Jace was a spoilsport who did not appreciate the awesomeness of ninjas.

But he was a spoilsport who was clearly growing concerned as Simon kept stumbling. Simon grit his teeth and tried – tried to make the sideways step out of reality, to go through the door in his head that he'd opened twice now – maybe three times, if killing the Ravener counted. Time and time again, as the flat of Rachiel's blade smacked against his shoulders, his chest, his sides and arms, Simon pushed himself right up to the doorway. Twice he even fell through it.

For an instant. Because the tarry black rage he'd felt before was waiting for him on the other side, sticky and burning and poisonous, and he recoiled from it instinctively, without thinking, the way your body whipped your hand off a hot stovetop before your brain felt the heat. The difference was that you could force yourself to hold your hand on the stove, if you were stupid enough and stubborn enough and wanted to burn. But trying to give himself up to the ninja mindspace, and the sick fury that came with it, was like...like willingly opening yourself up to demonic possession.

Simon couldn't do it.

_I don't want to be that. I am _not _that!_

Without the trance, though, Simon was useless. He just wasn't fast enough to meet Jace on equal terms; and even if he had been, he could no longer mirror Jace's training. Without it, Simon was just a gamer-cum-singer, with no martial experience _at all_.

Unless Halo 2 counted. But Simon was pretty sure it didn't.

He should have felt useless, humiliated, ashamed that he couldn't keep up. No doubt Alec would have called him a disgrace to his Shadowhunter blood, and told him again how Simon didn't deserve Jace's _armask__ō_. But none of those things flashed through his mind.

Because he was watching Jace.

It was too much of a cliché to claim that Jace moved like sex, but that was where Simon's traitorous thoughts went. He blamed his teenage hormones, and also Jace's ridiculous face. Mostly the face. Clearly, it was all the face's fault. And also Jace's arms, and the stark, sensual lines of the runes on Jace's throat, just peeking out over the neck of his shirt. It was like one of those dotted _cut here _lines on a kindergartener's work project, only instead of the blunt plastic scissors it invited Simon's tongue. _Lick here_, and Simon wanted to lick it, wanted to bite his own Mark there. The red mark from the night before – or was that this morning? – had faded, but that was all right, Simon could replace it and do it _properly_ this time.

It really shouldn't have been sexual. Jace was smacking him with the flat of his seraph blade and Simon was embarrassingly bad at avoiding it, tired from trying to leap and duck and boiling under all the leather. But it wasn't just the way that Jace looked like every demon hunter or mage knight from _years_ of Simon's fantasies (except for his Dean Winchester phase, but he challenged anyone not to swoon for either one or the other of the Winchester boys, if not _both_) or even the way he moved; it was the fucking _focus_ that was doing Simon in. Jace watched Simon as if there was nothing else in the world, and Simon didn't care if that was because Jace was thinking of sex too or if Shadowhunters were trained to ignore everything but their opponent/s in battle: the all-consuming _intensity_ in Jace's eyes was making Simon hard, making him remember how it felt when that concentration was applied to kissing skin instead of trying to bruise it.

Thank God the trousers weren't leather. At least the cargo pants were loose...

He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed when Jace called a halt, and told Simon to put Simiel away. Mostly relieved, he decided. The Shadowhunter body armour had kept him from bruising, but it was _hot_ – and not, unfortunately, only in the sexy sense. Simon's hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and the skin-tight shirt felt clammy and damp against his skin beneath the vest and jacket. Even his hands were sweating under the gloves: Simon couldn't imagine how much worse it would be in a real fight, outside in the New York summer.

And Jace, the bastard, wasn't even out of breath.

"You shouldn't be so perfect," Simon told him, collapsing melodramatically onto a nearby training mat. "The gods don't like that kind of thing."

"Which gods are we talking about?" Simon was staring up at the ceiling, so he couldn't see Jace, but he could hear the blond moving around.

"The Greek ones," Simon decided. "They were always cursing people for being perfect." He counted on his fingers. "Arachne: turned into a spider for her awesome weaving. Helen: too pretty, so they make her fall in love with some randomer and start the Trojan War. Akhilleus: also insanely hot, so Aphrodite turned him into a shark..."

Jace dropped down beside Simon. Gracefully. Simon contemplated kicking him on principle and decided against it: Jace had enough energy to kick him back. "That one doesn't sound so bad," Jace said. "I liked sharks when I was younger."

"Yeah?" Simon turned his head. His boyfriend – _erastes_ – his _Jace_ was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow. "I preferred orcas, personally. _'Let's free Willy!'_" Jace raised an eyebrow. "No? No, wait, what am I saying, of course you haven't watched it, you didn't even know about _Lord of the Rings_ until I showed it to you – you were a _deprived child_, you know that? _Deprived._"

"Mmhm." Jace's eyes glittered. "You missed one, you know."

Simon frowned. "Missed one what?"

"Your list." Jace's fingertips brushed the line of Simon's jaw. Simon's stomach went tight at the touch, and his dick hardened a little more.

_List, list, list... _Simon struggled to remember what they'd been talking about. "The Greek thing?" It was too hot in here. Simon wanted to get out of some of his layers, but he couldn't bear to move.

"Yes," Jace murmured. "You're forgetting Ganymede." He leaned down, and in, and his lips traced the path his fingers had just marked and Simon hissed, his hand flying up and clenching in Jace's hair. Jace bit Simon's ear in revenge, gently. "The youth who was so beautiful," he breathed, "that the king of the gods fell in love with him, and stole him away."

Simon tried not to shiver. Tried, and failed utterly. "You have a kidnapping kink thing going on, don't you?" he managed hoarsely. "Note to self: make an appointment at the optician's, and also find Jace a therapist." He had no idea what was coming out of his mouth. He was wholly focussed on Jace's. "So what happened? Did the guy explode like the golden shower girl?"

The hot breath of Jace's laughter caressed Simon's neck. "You're mixing up myths. Danae is the golden shower girl; Semele is the one who exploded." With his nose, he nudged Simon's chin up; Simon let his head fall back with something like a whimper, something deep in him shuddering and clenching tight as Jace's teeth brushed over Simon's throat. "But no. He didn't explode." It was too hot. It was too hot and the exhaustion of the work-out was rapidly dissolving into a molten kind of languor, one that pooled in Simon's bones and in the pit of his stomach. Jace's hair was soft between Simon's fingers and his voice was satin-husky and Simon couldn't move, Jace's lips and teeth were on his throat and they were soft but they were steel, holding Simon in place as surely as chains.

"Zeus took him as a lover," Jace murmured, "and gave him eternal youth." His hand found Simon's thigh, a warm, solid weight through the cargo pants, and just like that the heavy, delicious indolence turned electric; Simon's blood turned white and gold and hissing and he bit his tongue trying not to gasp, his free hand snapping up and grabbing at Jace's shirt. God, Jace even _smelled_ good. They could bottle his sweat and sell it as a perfume, and that should have been a seriously gross thought but it really _wasn't_. Simon wanted to lick him, bite him, _eat _him. "He wove the stars to form Aquarius in Ganymede's honour... The only one of his lovers he ever made a god."

Jace's hand slid higher as he nipped delicately at Simon's Adam's apple. Simon jerked, gasping. "Is this a come-on line, are you trying to tell me your cock will make me immortal? Is that how you get girls? Because dude, that is – "

Jace bit down hard.

" – _seriously fucking brilliant_, let's test it _right now_!"

The best camera in the world couldn't have caught who moved first. Time froze, stuttered – and then they were mouth to mouth, stealing the other's breath, Jace rolled and Simon pulled hard and the blond was on top of him, all long lean weight lighting fireworks in Simon's brain. His legs fell open and they both groaned, hissed, snarled, molten-metal hot and urgency screamed at them, terminal, they'd die if they didn't get it now, now, _now_. All the teasing, all the come-ons and the touches, the heated glances and the smirks; the desire that had been simmering for over an hour went up in flames, exploding, taking them with it. They tore at each other, quick hands gone stupid and clumsy, biting at lips, tongues, sharp and slick; Simon hooked his legs around Jace's hips and they were bucking, grinding, so hard, so _hot_, Simon wanted to scream with it, would kill something if Jace didn't lose the clothes in the next five seconds: they shoved Jace's jacket off, clawed Simon's onto the floor and threw his gloves metres away, and there was never a good reason for groin-guards, they were evil torture, he needed to feel Jace's arousal like an addict craving a hit.

Jace reared up, breaking the kiss, and Simon growled a protest until he saw the blond pulling his shirt up and over his head. Simon pushed himself up, following him, kissing and biting his way over Jace's collarbone, marking him, _mine_, Jace's hissed gasps dropping into the pit of his stomach like hot coals. Jace's fingers raked through Simon's hair and Simon caught Jace's nipple between his teeth, raking his nails over Jace's smooth back; his hips jerked at Jace's low groan of pleasure, wanting more, _needing _to hear that again. When Jace wrenched Simon's head back Simon caught a glimpse of his face, and it was like looking into a mirror, seeing his own hunger reflected back at him, savage and wild – just a glimpse before Jace shoved him down onto his back again, crushed their mouths together and Simon tasted bloody copper and sucked it off Jace's lip, his cock aching at the taste of it, at the sound Jace made.

_Fuck yes._ Without thinking Simon flipped them, twisting and throwing his weight with his hip and Jesus fucking Christ it was a thrill, feeling Jace's body all spread out under his, under him, but there were too many damned _clothes_. "Get me out of these," he demanded hoarsely, breaking away from Jace's lips to bite his neck, his shoulder. "Come on, come _on,_" as Jace hurried to obey, clawing at Simon's vest, getting in each other's way as Simon worked at Jace's zipper but unable to stop, unable to pull away even to undress. Jace's skin was warm, Simon tasted sweat and bit him, over and over, just for the noise Jace made when he did. The vest came open and they pushed it over Simon's shoulders hurriedly, and then the shirt, and then Simon shoved his hand down Jace's opened trousers and Jace gasped, arching like a bow –

Suddenly Simon was on his back again and there, now, he had no problem slipping into the ninja headspace this time. Faster than light the two of them moved, blinding heat, skin on skin, wrestling for the top, for dominance, snarling like animals and holy smokes, Batman, it felt better than anything, Jace's golden eyes gone bronze with lust and his lips red and swollen, his face twisted up with hunger, with an almost scandalised outrage that Simon was even _trying_ to put Jace on the bottom, but – but Christ on a pogo stick, Simon wanted that. Fought for it: he wanted to pin Jace flat and make him come undone, make that cocky, ever-smirking mouth go soft and slack with bliss. Jace was always so damned in control and Simon wanted to _wreck _him, wanted to make him _fucking lose it –_

And the fact that Jace fought him tooth and nail just made it better; they clashed like titans, skin breaking under nails and mouths bruising and it just built and built, skin-hands-lips, both of them refusing to submit, to go down, to be the one consumed. They both wanted to devour the other, and it was working, they were burning up, dissolving into white fire and diamond-dust ashes, stripped down to lightning and magma, starving, famished, hearts racing like it was the end of the world and there were only seconds to live-taste-touch. It was a supervolcano of need and heat, an apocalypse, twisting tighter and tighter, higher and hotter, Simon was a heartbeat away from coming in his pants and his back was scored with the marks of Jace's nails, his lips sore and bloodied, and he shoved his hand against Jace's stomach and slammed him down, held him there. Before Jace could turn the tables again Simon pushed his other hand into the blond's pants, slipping past the cotton boxers as if they weren't there and curling his fingers around the velvety hardness of Jace's cock.

It throbbed against his palm, and Simon smirked. Moving his hand from Jace's abdomen to his hair, he traced the tip of his tongue over the seam of Jace's lips, drinking in his frenzied moan.

"Stay," he purred playfully, rubbing his thumb over the slick head. His mouth watered, and he swallowed. "Just – _stay_."

Jace's voice was rough, like the length of a blade dragging down skin. "What are you – " The words dissolved into a shuddery breath as Simon shimmied down, because no male past puberty could be confused as to what that meant. The angle was awful, Simon had to let go of Jace's cock, settling between Jace's thighs and pulling the blond's pants down over his hips. Jace helped, breathing hard, lifting his hips to make it easier and his pupils were blown, the bronze almost completely eclipsed by dark, hungry black.

Simon grinned, rocking back on his heels to draw the trousers over Jace's knees. _You're halfway to wrecked already, aren't you? _

And then the pants were gone, and Jace was lying there in nothing but his boxers, a wet spot darkening the cotton, and for a moment Simon couldn't do anything but stare. The blond was pushed up on one elbow, watching Simon hungrily, completely unselfconscious. For years Simon had fantasised about the heroes in the mangas he read, the wizards and the vampire hunters – he'd had a huge crush on Aragorn, and Hugh Jackman as Van Helsing had a special place on his bedroom wall. He'd imagined, in detail, a variety of scenarios in which the Winchester brothers came to Brooklyn and made Simon the filling in their sex sandwich – the Latin featured heavily.

But – even though it kind of felt like blasphemy to think it – Jace was a million times sexier than the Supernatural boys. His scars, the silvery shadows of past runes, the stark calligraphy of active, permanent ones...

He cocked one blond eyebrow under the scrutiny, and Simon growled, sharply annoyed by Jace's veneer of cool confidence, reminded all at once of his plan to shatter Jace into pieces. Without a word of warning, he leaned his hands on Jace's thighs, smugly satisfied by the blond's sharp intake of breath. _Not so cocky now, are you? _Simon thought, leaning down over Jace's body. He pressed his lips to the bulge of Jace's cock through his underwear, heard Jace hiss over the pounding in his own ears.

_God I want you._

"Simon..." Jace rolled his hips against Simon's mouth and Simon took that as his cue, slid his lips down the length of Jace's cock with a low, hungry purr. He brushed up and down teasingly, breathing in the smell of him, but he didn't have the patience to tease Jace for long; his own dick was an iron bar between his legs and he pulled Jace's underwear down and away, gracelessly. Jace didn't seem to mind; his gorgeous cock curved up against his belly, flushed and wet at the tip, and they were both panting and Simon wanted it in his throat yesterday.

"Jace," Simon murmured back. He almost didn't recognise his voice. "I take it you don't want me to stop?" His stomach was knotted up with lust. He desperately wanted to push his hand into his pants and get off; it wouldn't take much. He was still wearing the vambraces, but he couldn't bear the delay of taking them off. "Now would be a good time to tell me if you do."

"By the Angel, I don't want you to stop," Jace breathed. He was holding himself still, but it was the kind of stillness that looked like he was vibrating – a tight, tense stillness. Simon laughed breathlessly and dipped his head, touched his lips to the base of Jace's cock, and that stillness shattered; Jace jerked, his hand flying into Simon's hair with a gasp. "Simon!" he hissed.

"Jace," Simon replied playfully. He slid spit onto his tongue and traced a wet ribbon up the length of Jace's cock, and inside he was twisting, shaking, his mind spinning apart and fracturing at the taste, the scent, the silky-soft skin stretched taut over Jace's arousal. The quick, frantic pants spilling out of Jace's mouth, and Simon was definitely not taking off his glasses, not with _that_ look on Jace's face – dark, and desperate, stunned and starving. Simon wanted that expression fixed in his memory.

Stroking his hands down to Jace's hipbones, Simon leaned his weight there – and closed his mouth around the head of Jace's cock.

Simon didn't have a name for the noise Jace made, low and choked in his throat, but his fingers tightened in Simon's hair and Simon's hips stuttered, a wave of wet heat sweeping through him from skull to toes.

_Fuck..._

Sucking cock was _awesome_. Simon hadn't realised that before he'd done it – it had seemed potentially gross and probably awkward. What did you do with your teeth? Your tongue? What if the other guy wasn't all that clean, and did you swallow or choke or what when he came? But once you had the mechanics down, it was this huge rush. Contrary to popular thinking there was nothing submissive about it (you had the most vulnerable part of a man's anatomy between your teeth, and _you_ were somehow submissive? Um, _no_ – human teeth could bite through bone if necessary; whoever was doing the sucking was most definitely the one in control). And giving someone that much pleasure – taking them apart, wringing those _sounds _out of them? There was nothing like it.

He sucked, and swallowed, nervously-hungrily and Jace's hipbones were perfect, they fit into Simon's palms like puzzle-pieces and it was like being in heat, a craving, a damn _compulsion_. It was _Jace_ and Simon was breaking open and he couldn't draw this out, needed, _now_; he opened his mouth wider and dropped down as far as he could, taking Jace almost to the root all at once, full and solid, clean skin and sweat and Jace –

Jace cried out, jack-knifing as if he'd been electrocuted, pleasure like a bullet and Simon smirked around the thickness, around the searing hot stab wound in his stomach. Jace tried to move his hips and Simon pressed down harder and the blond _whimpered_ – Simon almost came then and there, both of Jace's hands in Simon's hair now, pressing him down, urging him on, his hips making aborted little jerks, trying to get more, deeper, something, _anything_ – Simon remembered just how it felt to be restrained with that wet heat around your dick.

He sucked, thrilling at holding Jace down, making him take it. His skin felt hot and tight, and he started bobbing his head – just a little, and slowly at first, savouring it, revelling in Jace's groans and breathy pants, the way his body tried to writhe, tried to _move_. But Simon refused to let him, used his weight to hold Jace still, keep him pinned as Simon's lips slid up and down an inch or two, stroking his tongue along the length of the cock. Jace's breathing grew louder, his grip on Simon's hair tightening – not rough, not demanding, not yet, but something about the tension in his fingers made Simon shiver with excitement.

"Seraphs, Simon," Jace gasped, and Simon only hummed, wringing another choked cry from Jace's unprepared throat. Blindsiding Jace with pleasure was quickly becoming an addiction. "You Hellspawn, let me _move!_"

Simon swallowed, and blowjobs were always messy, there was no way to keep your chin from getting covered in spit, but there was also, also the _hunger_, wanting more, that – it wasn't a hollowness, he wasn't empty, but it was _Jace_ and Simon wanted him _so badly_. He wanted to _get off_ so badly, and having Jace's dick in his mouth was only making that worse _(better)_, it was this deep, hot ache and his own hips were rolling a little, tiny jerks that he couldn't quite help. He drew his teeth gently over Jace as he slid up almost to the tip and did it again for the sound Jace made; he sucked harder, stroking, teasing, Jace's groans growing more and more desperate as Simon bobbed his head more quickly. It was easy when you got into the rhythm of it, the trick was to breathe through your nose and avoid your gag reflex, and it was fine, it was good, it was really, _really _fucking good, awesome, epic. He flicked a glance up at Jace and moaned around Jace's cock, unable to help himself. Jace's expression was a cocktail of awe and bliss and need and _mine_ and desperate urgency, and _oh god, I will actually fucking come if I don't figure out how not to –_

But he couldn't figure out how not to, and didn't want to – he was so fucking ready to come, and he let go of Jace's hip to reach up and lay his hand over Jace's, in Simon's hair. He urged Jace to grip harder, to push, and Jace got it instantly and _whimpered_, again, at the realisation of what Simon wanted him to do. He bucked hard, gasping, and Simon only had one hand holding him down and it wasn't quite enough and Jace pulled him, pushed him, manhandled him not-quite-roughly and Simon groaned, going easily as Jace fucked his mouth. Hurriedly Simon fumbled one-handedly with his combats, got them open and shoved them and the crotch guard sewn into them down around his knees, desperate as his boxers followed, his whole body lighting up as he _finally _got his hand around his cock and Jace in his mouth, his throat, thrusting desperately, all his expert grace dissolved into crude need and it was the hottest thing Simon had _ever seen_. He jerked himself off frantically and Jace was saying his name, low and fervent and "Simon, Raziel damn you _Simon,_" and Simon came everywhere.

He did not bite down, or choke, but his muffled moan vibrated around Jace's cock and the blond gave a soft cry, raw and surprised and ripped out of him still bleeding. He followed Simon over the edge just a few seconds later, and come tasted _disgusting_, anyone who said otherwise was a lying liar who lied, but Simon swallowed almost all of it anyway, boneless and trembling.

There was something really, really dirty and hot about feeling your lover's come pool in your stomach.

He realised, belatedly, that he hadn't moved, that he still had his lips wrapped around Jace's cock. Jace was panting – they both were, but Jace seemed louder – and stroking gently through Simon's hair. Swallowing again, Simon released the blond's spit-slick cock to lie against his thigh, straightening up. His lips felt a little stretched, but that was unsurprising.

He made to brush the back of his hand over his mouth and his wet chin, but Jace suddenly sat up, catching Simon's wrist. His eyes were still dark, but the desperate tautness was gone as he lazily swiped his thumb through the mess on Simon's chin, and brought it to his own mouth.

Instantly his face twisted with disgust. "That tastes _awful!_"

Simon couldn't help it: he laughed, and kissed the _moue_ of distaste. "Oh, well, in that case I guess we'd better not do it again," he teased, wiping off his face. And tucking himself back in, because Jace was naked and gorgeous, but Simon had his pants around his knees and his dick hanging out, and that was not a good look for anybody.

"That," Jace said archly, "will not be necessary. It's not _that_ bad."

"Says the guy who wasn't doing the sucking," Simon replied wryly, but he was grinning.

Jace kissed him. The urgency was gone now, and the kiss was slow, deep and lazy. Simon parted his lips, letting Jace taste himself in Simon's mouth. The pressure of his lips on Simon's suggested that despite the taste, Jace liked it, and Simon grinned again. "You'll have to teach me how to return the favour," Jace murmured when they parted.

Simon's stomach lurched. "It'll be my pleasure," he answered, a little hoarse. Jace smirked at him.

Simon had made something of a mess, but it was nothing that couldn't be wiped up with his shirt. His own clothes – shirt and jeans, instead of the Shadowhunter gear – were still in the other room, and he dressed back in those. Jace didn't seem worried about anyone coming in and finding them; he lounged on Simon's leather jacket like a Renaissance model, watching Simon dress with the sated laziness of a well-fed panther, a cat-like smile on his lips.

"You know, in Saudi Arabia, the morality police can fine and punish you for being too good-looking," Simon told him. "I'm pretty sure they'd put _you_ in jail and throw away the key."

"That is a bizarre compliment, even for you, but I will take it." Jace stretched, hedonistic and sinful. Simon was still warm and aching from his orgasm, but he couldn't help looking, his eyes licking over the perfect lines of Jace's body. Jace caught him looking, and he smiled, reaching out a hand to beckon Simon closer. Simon went, and let Jace tug him down to the floor and into another soft, lazy kiss. Despite the bitter aftertaste on his tongue, it was sweet. "Thank you," Jace said softly.

Simon knew he meant for more than the compliment. "You're welcome." He ran his hand over Jace's chest. Simiel, back in the _armask__ō_ cuff, caught the light and sparkled. There was a new depth to this thing between them now, unspoken and delicate, but warm. A new intimacy. It settled over them like silk. "I promise, you weren't the only one who enjoyed it."

Jace's eyes gleamed, a flicker of heat. "I noticed."

Simon grinned, then glanced over at the pile of Shadowhunter gear. "Should I put all that away?"

"No, it's yours now. We'll assign you your own room and you can put everything in your wardrobe." Jace paused. "That is, if you're going to stay here."

A week, Simon mused, should not be long enough to be able to read the hesitation behind Jace's breezy tone. And yet he could, caught the whisper of uncertainty like a firefly alighting gently in his palm. Fragile and precious. "I think I might," he said slowly. He would be closer to the action here, and Clary's mom couldn't put him up forever. He raised his hand and cupped Jace's cheek softly. And he could work on smoothing that uncertainty away.

_'To love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be the one destroyed...' _He brushed his lips over Jace's. _I'll prove you wrong. Even if we only have ten minutes together, I'm going to prove you wrong, Jace._

"But that means I need to do laundry," he added.

"Mm, your shirt needs a wash," Jace agreed, a playful glint in his eyes as they both glanced towards the shirt Simon had used to clean up the mess.

"Well, how about you get dressed, and show me where your washing machine is?"

"Get dressed?" Jace stretched out on his stomach, playfully swinging his legs in the air. "Surely it's a crime to cover up this body?"

Simon swatted him hard on the ass, and smirked at Jace's yelp.

* * *

NOTES

I'm not explaining the names of Simon's new blades; you'll find out when he does, which should be in the next chapter.

_Erastes_ and _eromenos_ are ancient Greek terms, more or less translating as top and bottom. The _erastes_ was typically the older, more dominant partner, and the _eromenos _was the younger and more typically submissive. But they also translate as lover and beloved, which is mostly the sense in which Jace uses them.

_Shud__ō_ is a Japanese term, more or less the samurai version of ancient Greek pedastry – specifically, the bond between a master samurai and his student, who were also lovers. Although from my research it's significantly less dodgy than the Greek version. Jace is making a bit of a joke because he and Simon are lovers and Jace is teaching Simon the same kind of martial skills the samurai would have taught _his_ student.

_Harpagmos_ is from ancient Crete. For the Cretans, it was a ritual/ceremony in which a would-be _erastes_ ritually kidnapped a young man (with the prior consent and warning of the friends and family) and took him away to the wilderness for a few months, where they became lovers and hunted and trained with the elder man's cadre of warriors. At the end of the _harpagmos _the young man could reject or accept his 'kidnapper's advances, at which point he would be known as the elder's _parastathentes_ – literally, lovers who stand together/fight together.

It has a slightly different meaning for Shadowhunters, but you won't need to worry about that for a while...


	22. Chapter 22

Remembering what Jace had said about there being no electricity in Idris, Simon had been a little worried that Shadowhunters did their laundry in copper pots with lye and a laundry paddle. But no, apparently there was no problem putting electricity in the Institute. There was a whole room filled with industrial sized washing machines and dryers, for those rare occasions when the Institute was full of visiting Nephilim.

"But how do you clean the leather?" Simon asked, poking at the dial for one of the machines' settings. There were a bunch of strange symbols on it, ones he didn't recognise as the pictorials for cotton- or silk-washes.

Jace, amused, helped him, twisting the dial without hesitation to select a setting. "There's a brownie cleaning service who takes care of the gear for us. Here, this one's for normal clothes." He waited while Simon shovelled in his mundane shirts and jeans. "Although all of our hunting gear _is_ actually machine washable. The brownies just do a better job."

Simon looked at him sharply, but Jace's expression was so even that he couldn't tell whether the blond was joking or not. "Machine washable, huh?"

"Mmhm." Jace examined his fingernails.

"Good to know."

Under Jace's direction, Simon put everything in and switched it all on. At least only the shirt from his gear needed cleaning, and they didn't need to fuss with the leather or plated vest.

"Now what?" Simon asked as they left the room.

Jace shrugged. "Whatever you want. The day is ours. Until Hodge finds something, we have no leads to follow, no work to do."

_No leads to follow._ Simon felt a stab of guilt; distracted by Jace's kisses, he'd almost forgotten about Jocelyn. "Couldn't we go out, find someone to talk to?"

But Jace shook his head. "It's too early." He grinned, turned and caught Simon's chin in his fingers. "The Shadow World is a nocturnal world, little mundane," he murmured.

Simon shivered, feeling heat spark and catch in the pit of his stomach. One of these days he was going to have to convince Jace to talk dirty to him. That accent..._Mundane_. Simon couldn't even be annoyed by it, not with the way Jace's lips shaped the word. "Thought I was a Nephilim now, like you?"

Jace snorted. "There are no others like me." He nipped Simon's lip, and Simon was too distracted by Jace inadvertently quoting Jaime Lannister to do anything but gasp at the sting. "Why don't we find you a room? Get you settled in, at last?"

"I suppose that's a good place to start..."

Jace smirked, and let him go.

There wasn't much moving in to do. All Simon owned in the world currently fit in a single rucksack; he dropped it on the bed in the room next to Jace's and was at a loss for what to do next. Jace, lounging in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, made no suggestions: he only watched, his eyes cat-like in their inscrutability, a small smile curving his lips.

"What?" Simon asked. Restlessly, he opened the bag and started putting things away. Most of his clothes were being washed, but there was a shirt or two that found a place in the chest of drawers. The new seraph blades, at least, were easy to find a place for; Jace had given him a more unobtrusive belt that fit through the loops of his jeans, with subtle notches that the dowels could be slipped into invisibly, without giving away the gleam of crystal.

Simiel was impossible to miss, but the others were invisible, and more dangerous because of it, unbonded or no. No one would see them coming.

Jace's smile widened as Simon arranged his iPad and notebook on the bedside table. "I find myself enjoying the sight of you staking your territory," he said softly.

Simon paused mid-motion. "This is another of those Shadowhunter things, isn't it?" He'd noticed before that Shadowhunters were big on possession – making claims, publically branding their loved ones. Simiel was one such, bright and crystalline on his wrist, circled by the same stars that marked Jace's ring... Glancing up at Jace, Simon thought on his _eraste_'s words, when he'd offered the cuff and explained what it meant to wear it: _'It means that you're mine, and I'm yours.'_

_ You're mine too, Wayland_. _This claim of yours goes both ways. _

"Once a room is occupied, none may enter without the resident's permission," Jace confirmed. His eyes gleamed. "Just as no one can cross the threshold of your house without invitation."

Simon understood at once. Jace liked the sense of permanence, liked Simon carving out a place for himself because it implied that Simon would stay in it – maybe for quite a while.

"And yet you didn't bat an eye at me being in your room earlier," he murmured, thinking it through. The lithe panther waiting behind Jace's eyes, written into the lithe grace with which he moved, had been only too happy to allow Simon into his territory.

"Sorry?"

A grin tugged at the corners of Simon's lips. "Nothing." He tilted his head. "So basically you're telling me that you're a vampire."

"_Excuse me?_"

"You need an invitation to come in!" Simon crowed, laughing at Jace's scandalised expression.

"Vampires do _not_ need to be invited to enter a place," Jace said. "That's just a myth."

"Mmhm." Simon grinned. He raised his hands to his mouth and made fangs with his fingers. "Grr."

"I am _not_ a vampire."

"_Grr._"

Jace's lips were twitching. "You are _impossible._"

"_Grrrrrrrrrr._"

Jace threw up his hands. "Fine! I'll be next door when you recover your sanity."

"You don't vant to suck my blood?" Simon called after him, in a bad Transylvanian accent almost lost in his laughter. Jace was smiling as he disappeared into the hallway, and a few seconds later Simon heard Jace's door open and close behind him.

Simon felt light, as if all his bones had been filled with helium. A subtle weight he hadn't realised he was carrying had dissolved in their playfulness like a pearl in wine, and he wanted to keep laughing, wanted to move. A glittering restlessness tugged him to the bed, and he threw himself down, snatching up his notebook and a pen and opening to an empty page.

He stared at it, strangely breathless, and then called Clary.

"So Jace and I are together now," he told her when she picked up. "And also, he is not a vampire. Probably."

"So he doesn't vant to suck your blood?"

"See, this is why I love you!" Simon said. "You don't ask stupid questions, you just give me the Count Chocula accent and run with it."

"I live to serve. Congrats, by the way. Took the two of you long enough."

Simon paused. "...Yeah, I've got nothing," he confessed. "There was some confusion. Of the epically stupid variety. He and Alec were never together, by the way," he added.

"I figured something like that must have been the case. You're not a homewrecker." Simon heard typing. "How's Alec taking it? Does he know yet?"

Simon sighed, rolling onto his back. "Not that well," he admitted. "He is not my biggest fan."

"Any particular reason? Or is it just because you hooked up with the guy he likes?"

"We did not 'hook up'," Simon corrected archly. "We share a profound bond."

He could hear her grin. "Uh huh."

Simon stared at the ceiling without seeing it. "I think some of it's jealousy," he said slowly, thinking back over his interactions with Alec. "But some of it's because I'm a guy. I think he's worried that Jace is going to get in trouble for being with me."

"And will he?"

"I don't know. The Clave are a bunch of douchebags, but...I really don't know enough about them. Apparently Shadowhunters are big on baby-making, and obviously I don't have the equipment for that."

Clary choked. "Isn't it a little soon to be thinking about that kind of thing?!"

Simon blinked. "I just said that we're _not_ having kids!" he protested. "I'm not exactly getting fitted for a wedding dress!" He guiltily avoided looking at Simiel. He knew the _armask__ō _blade symbolised more than a simple hook-up. Less than a ring, but maybe...Maybe not much less.

"I'm glad to hear it. You'd look awful in a dress."

"Thanks," he said dryly.

"You're welcome," Clary chirped, and he didn't need to see her to know she was smirking. But then her voice turned serious. "You really like this guy, don't you?"

Simon hesitated, but not for long. "Yeah, Lewis. I really, really do." He smiled, fondness a candleflame in his breastbone. "He's an arrogant git who's never even seen a comic book and he doesn't know who Harry Potter is, but he's..." The Ravener. The Forsaken. The way he'd gone after the vampires who'd taken Clary without a second's hesitation. The way he'd laughed as the motorcycle plunged towards the ground; his scandalised outrage watching _Twilight_; the way he kissed and the way he moved and the way he gave Simon armour instead of ordering him out of danger. Simon closed his eyes, feeling something catch in his throat. "He's incredible," he said softly. "He really...God, Clary."

"Oh, Fray." Clary was quiet. "You've got it _bad_." Her voice was gentle, and Simon heard what she didn't say: that he was falling so hard, so fast – maybe too hard, and too fast. "Don't let him break your heart, okay?"

There was a lump in his throat. "I'll do my best," he said thickly.

"You do that." Clary exhaled. "Maybe you should talk to Alec about the Clave. If you don't want to ask Jace. It would be – you should know what you're getting into."

'_Do you have _any idea_ what it means to wear that? What it means that he gave it to you, or what the Clave will do when they find out?'_

"I'm not sure he'll want to talk to me," Simon said carefully.

"Maybe not. But you said he's Jace's best friend, right? That means you guys are going to have to work things out eventually. And if he's really worried about the Clave – if there's a good reason to be worried – then you need to know, Simon." She paused. When she spoke again, there was a strain to her voice, an almost-tremble that he'd never heard before. "Their world eats people up and spits them out, Fray," and he knew she was remembering the vampires, the Dumort, how they'd had to cut their way out. "Valentine's already out to get you. Don't give anybody else a reason to gun for you, okay?"

_It's worth it._ The words sprang to mind instantly, but he bit down on them, his heart pounding. Worth dying for? No, that was stupid, that was – this was – it was typical teenage melodrama, hormones and desire frying his brain. He wouldn't risk his life for someone he'd known for a week. That was insanity.

_Except that you already have. _He hadn't run from the Forsaken when Jace ordered him to, had he? He'd stayed, and risked death to save Jace, and never thought twice. Hadn't thought at all, just _done _it because he couldn't have done otherwise. And that was before he'd even known Jace's surname.

_He's worth it. _

"I'll talk to Alec," he said quietly, shaken by the realisation. _Would I really die for him? To be with him? _He told himself not to be overdramatic, that the Clave were seriously unlikely to kill him. But the quiet certainty that settled in his chest didn't tremble at the question. He had to think about that. "I promise."

"Good." He heard her take a deep breath, and instantly felt guilty. Here he was with his drama, and he hadn't stopped to ask her how she was feeling after last night.

"How are you holding up?" he asked gently.

But she surprised him. "I'm going to be okay," she said firmly, as if daring the world to contradict her. "Some nightmares, maybe, but screw those leeches. I'm not going to let them turn me into some helpless wreck." He knew she was smiling as she added "I'd have been happier if I could have rescued _myself_, but, you know. Gotta take what you can get."

He laughed. "Next time you can do the rescuing," he promised, so damn proud of her that it hurt. "I'll play damsel in distress. I'll swoon and everything. Promise."

"A smarter man would just stay out of trouble, instead of arranging a rescuer," she told him primly.

"I have been called many things, but I'm not sure smart is one of them."

She huffed a laugh, but before she could reply Simon heard the muffled voice of Mrs Lewis, barely audible. "Is that your mom?"

"Yeah, I've got to go. Call me later, okay? I want to hear all the juicy details about you and Jace!"

"I feel objectified!" he called down the phone, but she was laughing, and then she was gone.

)0(

"We should have a movie night," Simon announced when Jace opened the door. "Since we have nothing else to do, and also I have not even _begun_ to rectify the tragedy that is the Shadowhunter knowledge of pop culture. Or lack thereof."

Jace's eyebrows rose. "I've heard worse ideas," he said lightly.

Simon jabbed a finger into Jace's chest. "Do not malign pop culture. Someone who doesn't know what TARDIS stands for does not get an opinion on pop culture."

Jace's lips quirked, but he manfully kept a straight face. "I will keep that in mind."

Simon patted the blond's shoulder. "Good boy." He ducked away from Jace's swipe, laughing. "I'm sorry, snookums, was that too patronising?"

"Not at all, snuggle sausage."

Simon choked. Jace smirked. "You made that one up," Simon accused.

"I did no such thing. I overheard a truly sickening woman use it on the subway once, to refer to her boyfriend. Why, don't you like it?"

"I will turn to the internet," Simon warned. "I will look up the most disgusting, the most _horrifying _pet names in the _history of ever_ if you do not take that one back."

"Aw," Jace cooed, struggling not to laugh. "What's the matter, oojy coojy woojy-poo?"

"That's it, I'm filing for divorce. On grounds of _abuse_. And possibly _crimes against humanity_." Jace was laughing – he looked ready to fall over, and Simon's face hurt from trying so hard not to join in. "Or at least against the English language. Oh my god, _stop laughing_, you _utter lunatic!_ Do you hear me? I'm sending you to the Hague, that was too much, you need to be put against the wall and _shot_ – "

Jace kissed him, grin to grin. "Shut up," he breathed, all gold and light and laughter. "Shut up, _eromenos_."

_Beloved_. Simon's breathing hitched. His back against the doorframe, he ached, somewhere down deep. They were pressed so close together that he thought he could feel Jace's heartbeat against his own chest, through the cotton of their shirts.

_He's worth it. _The revelation was there, waiting for him, just as staggering and earth-shaking as it had been when he was talking to Clary. _This is worth it. This is worth – everything._

He was in so far over his head that he could no longer see the sun.

He swallowed hard. "I'll go ask Alec if he wants to watch the movies with us," he whispered. He couldn't stop himself from sweeping the pads of his thumbs over Jace's cheekbones, soft and slow. "You should find Isabelle."

Jace turned his head, brushing his lips over Simon's wrist. "I'll do that," he said softly. He met Simon's eyes, and Simon didn't have a name for what he saw there: not quite wariness or concern – both of those were present, but they were overlaid by a calm certainty. Simon wondered if that confidence was for him – if Jace thought that Simon could handle Alec alone – or for Alec, if Jace trusted his _parabatai_ with his _eromenos_ despite the enmity between them. "But you should shower first," he added with a small grin.

"Good plan," Simon said after a moment, belatedly remembering the state he was in. Changing his clothes had not made him any less sweaty. He took another kiss from Jace's mouth, amazed all over again that he could do this now. That he could touch, and that Jace would touch back, curling his fingers around the back of Simon's neck with such tenderness that it was hard to breathe.

Simon had meant it to be only a quick kiss, a peck, but when their lips touched he lost hold of his intentions. It melted into slow, languid sweetness, dripping down Simon's every nerve ending and casting them in quicksilver and platinum. Without meaning to, he slid his hands into Jace's hair, feeling everything dissolve into a softness that burned his eyes and made him tremble; Jace kissed Simon's lower lip, and then his upper, so unspeakably, painfully gentle that Simon wanted to beg him to stop, and thought he would die if it did, if it ended. Time spun out like silk, strung with diamonds like stars; it was an opening, a melding, something unknown inside him unfolding to encompass the world; it was taking him apart, piece by quivering piece, softly, gently, Jace slipping into his soul like a stiletto into a heart, with a whisper and a sigh, and it was so _much_. Simon had never been touched like this before, never even dreamed about it. It _hurt. _It shook him to the core and it was so, so much, too good to bear, to breathe.

He had no idea how much time passed before the kiss finally ended. When it did he was shaking, almost scared by the intensity still echoing beneath his skin. There was a dull, sweet ache in the pit of his stomach and in his throat, and his eyes were stinging. He had to blink rapidly and take a deep, shaky breath before he felt halfway solid again.

Jace pressed their foreheads together. He was breathing hard, rough and uneven. "_Ya'aburnee_," he whispered hoarsely, low and fervent as a prayer. He was trembling. "By the Angel, Simon. _Ya'aburnee_."

Simon swallowed hard. "Ya-ah-boor-nay," he sounded out quietly. The unfamiliar word felt smooth on his tongue, like a pearl. "What does it mean?"

Jace didn't answer. "You should shower," he said softly after a moment, stepping back and away.

Simon nodded once. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." They were both shaken. Simon didn't think Jace was upset or angry, but that had unnerved them both. Sex was one thing – sex was easy. But a kiss like that made it hard to ignore the words neither of them had said yet, growing more tangible with every moment. Crystallising like amber between them.

"Don't forget about Isabelle," Simon reminded him, and went back to his own room, his thoughts spinning like nebulae.

)0(

His hair was still damp from the shower as texted the strange word Jace had used to Clary, spelling it out phonetically and asking her to Google it when she got the chance.

It was only then, as he was putting his phone away, that he realised he had no idea where Alec's room was.

"Well, this is annoying," he announced to the corridor. "I don't suppose there's a handy ghost who could give me directions to Alec? No? Anybody?" After that kiss, he felt a little reluctant to go and ask Jace for help. They both needed a little time apart to work through their thoughts; it would be awkward, popping his head around the door to ask for a map. Which was another thing. "Or a Marauder's Map?" He looked up at the ceiling, half-expecting an enchanted parchment to fall down at his feet.

"Miow?"

He looked down. "I will accept a magic cat as a substitute," he said mildly.

Church, daintily licking his paw, rolled his eyes. Simon gaped – that was an incredibly strange look for a cat! – and for a moment could only stare as Church got up, twitched his tail, and began walking down the hallway.

After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder as if to say _well? Aren't you coming, stupid human? _

Simon shut his jaw with a click and hurried after him.

)0(

"This is it?" Simon asked.

Church gave him a scathing look, huffed primly, and stalked away.

"All right then," Simon muttered. The door looked no different to the dozens of others Church had led him past, but if you couldn't trust a magic cat, who could you trust?

He knocked. Alec was Jace's best friend, and that alone was a good reason to try and make things better with him. But there was also the fact that, in hindsight, Simon was no longer so certain that Alec had spoken out of jealousy. Oh, he'd called Simon _nothing,_ called him useless – but only right at the end, after their tempers had gotten away from them both. He'd been more concerned with the potential danger to Jace than insulting Simon, hadn't he?

Simon didn't like it. But if Alec was really only trying to look out for Jace...If it was more about protecting his _parabatai_ than driving off a rival for Jace's affections...

Well, they were about to find out, weren't they?

The door opened without warning. For half a heartbeat Simon caught a glimpse of what Alec's face looked like unmarred by a scowl, open and unguarded and stunningly pretty. But then the Shadowhunter recognised his visitor and the walls slammed down, turning his bluebell eyes to ice.

And yes, Simon had just compared Alec's eyes to flowers. _Shoot me now._

"Here's the thing," he said quickly, before Alec could snarl at him. "You're Jace's best friend, and at least for the minute I'm his – boyfriend. Or whatever. So it's really, really stupid for us to fight all the time." His pride burned, but his common sense shoved his pique aside. Maybe at St Xavier's it wasn't a big deal to hold a grudge forever. But this was the Shadow World. _Here be dragons. _It wasn't a playground, wasn't a game: people died here. Who knew if he'd have to fight side by side with Alec at some point? Wasn't it better for them all to get along, just in case they ended up depending on each other?

And... "We both love Jace," he said quietly. "We shouldn't – we shouldn't be fighting."

Alec stilled. "You love him?"

Simon froze. Had he said that? He had, hadn't he? _Oh shit. _"Don't kill me," he blurted, only half joking. His hand went to his left wrist, touching his fingertips to Simiel's hilt, his heart racing in case – just in case –

Alec's eyes followed the gesture. Something like pain sparked in his eyes at the sight of the blade, but he didn't comment on it this time. Simon let his hand fall.

"I want to know," he said quietly, "if I'm putting Jace in danger." He met Alec's eyes squarely. "I want to know everything."

Alec stared at him, his expression unreadable. "Do you really?" he asked, and Simon knew he wasn't talking about the 'everything'.

Simon felt the tug on his heart, remembering the aching breathlessness that had felt like being unmade. The word Alec wanted – or maybe feared? – sprang sharp and sure to Simon's tongue, but he hesitated. It rested there, a near-tangible weight in his mouth, light as a feather and heavy as osmium. A razor pressed hard against the inside of his lips.

Was this love? How were you supposed to know? What he'd felt for Clary – what he still felt for Clary – was not this. She and Jace were so similar, he realised, with their confidence and their smirks and their quicksilver tongues. But Clary... Simon struggled to put his finger on the difference. Clary... Clary was _whole._ She was complete within herself. Simon had always adored that about her, the way she was so _finished_, the way she could love without needing. She loved herself and didn't need anyone to tell her she was worth it, needed no validation from those around her or the world. She was kind and clever and kicked his ass at Grand Theft Auto, and he would die for her without thinking twice.

Although it was probably a good thing that she'd turned him down. He could see that now. Otherwise he would now be trying to convince her and Jace that they could make a threesome work, and he suspected that that would be like trying to herd cats. Cats that turned out to be manticores. Hungry ones.

But Jace... Jace was a mystery, mercurial and fascinating and exquisite. A contradiction, a riddle with the face of an angel. He had blood on the soles of his feet and shadows in his eyes – but then he would laugh, or kiss Simon's wrist, or give Simon weapons instead of benching him. He was a warrior who played the piano, who glanced at a technology and instantly saw how to use it to help his people. He was scarred inside and out, and yet he could be so gentle; he faced down demons and yet he'd been terrified when Simon was lost to the rune-music this morning. The way he'd pressed their foreheads together... He had not hesitated to go after Clary, even though he disliked her, and he'd been the only one who'd promised that they would find Simon's mom. He made Simon laugh and smile and ache.

What was the difference? What Simon felt for Clary – it was...light. Not inconsequential, but like sunlight; bright and warm, even burning at times. There were solar flares when they fought or clashed, but the sun was always there, integral, necessary. The sun could create deserts, and Simon knew he would be willing to do that if someone hurt Clary; but it was life, too. It was...it just _was_. There could be no world without it.

Jace...His feelings for Jace were the ocean, and there could be no world without that, either. Beautiful, and terrible, and terrifying, the depth and breadth of it, the power of this thing he felt. You could drown in the ocean. It could swallow you whole and turn your bones to coral and your eyes to silver. There were shadows in it, whirlpools and storms and things with sharp teeth. It was not a steady, calm thing, like sunlight dripping honey-sweet to earth: it demanded worship.

But it deserved it, too. Life had come from the seas. And humans were 70% water: the ocean was already inside him, with its salt and its pearls. The sun was an integral part of the world, but the ocean was an integral part of _him_, in him so deep that there would be no getting it out.

Was that love?

Alec was still waiting for an answer.

"I care about him," Simon said carefully, "more than I've ever – more than I've ever cared about anyone."

Alec was still staring at him, a small frown etched between his eyebrows. Simon had no idea what was on his face, but whatever it was must have satisfied Alec; he breathed out slowly and nodded once, jerkily. "All right. Come in."

Excruciatingly aware that this was Alec's territory in more senses than one, Simon followed him in. The room itself was identical to Jace's, to Simon's, but it had more personal touches than either. Where Jace's was stark and spartan, and Simon's basically untouched, Alec had photographs in simple frames, and a neat desk beneath a single shelf of books. His bedspread was a rich, dark blue, not the Institute-standard grey. Simon wondered if Alec had chosen it himself, or if Isabelle or the Lightwood parents had had a hand in decorating the room.

He sat down in the chair by the desk, but Alec stayed standing, wary and uncertain like a wild animal not sure what to do with this strange intruder.

"Tell me," Simon prompted, "what would happen if your Clave found out about Jace and I."

"Nothing good." Alec leaned against the windowsill, watching Simon with that mask of an expression Shadowhunters were probably taught in the nursery. "The Clave don't like anyone being gay, but it's worse for Shadowhunters than for other Nephilim. They – "

"Wait a sec – what do you mean, 'other Nephilim'? I thought Shadowhunters and Nephilim were the same thing?" Simon was baffled.

Alec frowned at him, bemused. "Are all mundanes soldiers?"

"No, of course not, but – what?"

Alec actually looked amused. "Shadowhunters are Nephilim, but not all Nephilim are Shadowhunters. We're a caste – a warrior caste. All Nephilim train to be Shadowhunters, but most aren't right for it. Just as most mundanes aren't suited for war." He shrugged. "All of us fight. Some just do it with a pen or a hoe rather than a sword."

Remembering the Bone City, and the bricks and mortar of Shadowhunter bone, Simon thought he understood. "So everyone in Idris works to support the Shadowhunters, because you're the ones who kill demons?"

"Yes."

Simon made a note to investigate Idris' economy. He suspected that Miss Reynolds, the Business Studies teacher at St Xavier's, would have a field day with it. But Alec was still talking.

"There are normal Nephilim who qualify to become Shadowhunters, and mundanes who drink from the Cup and Ascend, but the best of us are those from the First Families – the ones descended from Jonathan Shadowhunter's original cadre, his _agela_. The ones who have _always _been Shadowhunters."

"Oh, God, it's purebloods and muggleborns all over again," Simon groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. He thought of Jace saying _'Shadowhunters are bred for this. We have been for a thousand years.'_ "And the Waylands are purebloods, aren't they?" he asked, his heart sinking.

"Pureblood Shadowhunters, as far back as you can go," Alec confirmed. "And that's the problem. If Jace were the son of a craftsman who had ascended to the Shadowhunter ranks, the Clave might be willing to look the other way. But he isn't. He's the result of a thousand years of Shadowhunter breeding – faster, stronger, _better_ than other Nephilim. And if they learned that he was going to take himself out of the gene pool, the Clave would be furious."

"Why is this awesome demon-slaying group of people ruled over by such _idiots?_" Simon demanded. "Gay guys have been having children forever, they just close their eyes and picture Brad Pitt instead of Angelina Jolie. Jace could marry a guy and still have kids. _You _could marry a guy and still have kids." At Alec's stunned expression, Simon sighed and rubbed his temple. "Okay, but what would they actually _do_, if they were criminally thick and didn't realise that Jace could still give them a bunch of bouncing baby monster hunters?" This was all so bizarre. It had been a little over a _week_. No one was getting married, and yet here he was arguing his and Jace's right to do so. It was patently ridiculous.

"If they ordered him to give you up, and he refused?" Alec's face tightened. "They could confiscate his estate, his home and funds. To be returned when he complied. And if that didn't work – if it got to the point where they no longer believed they could change his mind – they would strip him of his runes."

A chill, sick and cold. "What does that mean?" Simon asked quietly.

Alec ran his hand over his face. "It means they would cast him out," he said harshly. "He wouldn't be a Shadowhunter anymore. He wouldn't even be a _Nephilim_ anymore, not in any way that mattered. His seraph blades would reject him and his name would become a curse. He would be unmade."

"But that's insane!" Simon burst out. "What, so rather than wait and see if he changes his mind in a few years, they just – destroy him? There's cutting your nose off to spite your face and then there's _fucking stupid_."

He'd expected Alec to get angry, but he didn't; his blue eyes actually calmed in the face of Simon's frustration. "You don't understand. Everything – _everything_ we do is to protect the world from demons. Every minute of every day belongs to that goal. To turn from it, to go against it, is a betrayal of the task Raziel set us. It's – blasphemy. By being with you – or any man – Jace is weakening our war effort by denying the world his sons and daughters to fight after him. Don't you see that?"

Simon bit his tongue. "It's a moot point," he forced through gritted teeth. "Gays and lesbians and even asexual people are perfectly capable of having kids. So there's no need to destroy anybody."

"Except that they won't order Jace to have children," Alec pointed out quietly. "They'll tell him to leave you. And he won't, because he's the most loyal person I know." He glanced at Simon. "What do mundane Generals do when a soldier disobeys an order?"

"We court-martial them," Simon snapped. "There's a _trial_. We don't unmake them as human beings!"

Alec shrugged. "You used to shoot them," he said blithely.

Simon had nothing to say to that. He was pretty sure that it was true.

"So will you leave him?" Alec asked softly. "Now that you know what he's risking?"

Simon picked at a loose thread on his jeans. "I'll talk to him about it. But ultimately it's his decision to make, not mine. He's the one with the most to lose." He fell silent for a moment. "If he decides it's too much to risk, then I'll go. If he doesn't..." _Then I don't know _how_ to go._ How did you take the ocean out of your blood?

What were they going to do, when they got Jocelyn back? Would that be the end? Or could he and Jace manage some semblance of a normal relationship, one in which they didn't live in each other's pocket but in separate houses? Could they date like a normal couple after what they'd been through together? Simon couldn't really see them going for ice-cream after they'd stood down a combined pack and coven of vampires and werewolves side by side. After Simiel and the Bone City and the Forsaken. What would they say to each other, if they tried to be normal?

_ But he could come to band practise, and I could show him Forbidden Planet and take him to the movies. _If only _Return of the King _was still showing in cinemas...

"You said – " Alec bit off the words. "If you really love him, you'll go."

"Really?" Simon didn't look at him. He drew Simiel and stared at the floor without seeing it, slowly twisting the dowel through his fingers. "I don't think that's what love is. I don't think that's how it works. You can't force people to do what you want, even if you think it's right, or to keep them safe." Jace, giving him armour and weapons instead of ordering him to the sidelines and safety. "You can't take people's choices away from them. I'm not even sure you have a right to protect someone who doesn't want protecting."

"So that's it?" Alec demanded, his voice seething with barely reined-in anger. "You think it's worth it? His entire life for a summer romance, a few kisses? You'll let them destroy him?"

_Do you think Valentine _listens_ when your mother begs him not to –_

Simon snapped into the cold, clear place like a bullet into the chamber of a gun, like a blade from a sheath. It was the easiest thing in the world.

_ If you hurt her –_

Simon looked up at Alec, his bones turned to steel and ice around a sea-storm heart.

_ If you hurt HIM –_

Whatever he saw in Simon's eyes, Alec flinched.

_I will **rip you apart**._

Simon smiled, slow and sharp. "No," he said softly. "I didn't say that."

Alec didn't say anything. The two of them looked at each other, and a wordless understanding passed between them. After a long pause Alec nodded once, slowly, with a grave understanding and just a flicker of something that might have been approval. Simon calmly slipped back through the doorway in his head. The cool sharpness faded from the world.

"I should go," Simon said, shaken. Again. He'd felt it again. That vicious poison, that exulting certainty that he would wreak harm and hurt and _enjoy_ it – he'd felt it again. Toxic and heroin-sweet, and – and ridiculous. He couldn't murder the Clave even if he'd wanted to. Not even if they laid a hand on Jace.

_Oh yes you can._

Simon jolted to his feet, feeling sick.

"Wait." Alec rose too, and then hesitated, uncertainty passing over his face. "I – there's something you should have. If you – if you really do care."

Simon frowned as Alec went to his wardrobe and opened the door, but he waited, curious. Alec obscured most of Simon's view, but he thought he saw the Shadowhunter lift a false bottom or panel from the bottom of the wardrobe, before he straightened up and returned to Simon.

He was holding a book.

"It's an old edition," Alec explained, proffering it to Simon, who took it. _The Shadowhunter Codex._ It was thick and heavy, with a slightly battered cover bearing a Shadowhunter rune beneath the title in faded gilt: the one that looked like a diamond with horns. Simon ran his fingertip over it. After this morning, he was afraid of hearing its music in his head, but the song was a familiar one, and didn't try to consume him. It was in the seraph blades, and on Jace's skin. _Angelic power._ "Some of the things in it were edited out of the newer versions."

Things Alec thought he should read, clearly. Simon wondered what they were. "Thanks," he said, with real gratitude. He'd never turned down a book in his life, and one about Shadowhunters? _Gimme._ "I'll get it back to you."

But Alec shook his head. "Keep it. I have another." He met Simon's eyes, and for a moment silence hung between them again, easier and less tense than before. "I still don't think this is a good idea," he said finally. "And if you hurt him, no one will ever find your body." He spoke so mildly, so evenly, that Simon knew that Alec meant every word. It should have terrified him, but instead it soothed the black viciousness still coiling and uncurling in his chest like a shifting snake. That part of him – he found himself approving of Alec's threat. _Someone else who will take care of Jace._ As if Jace wasn't more than capable of taking care of himself. "But if you're going to try and be with him, you should know more about us."

He nodded at the book. Simon tucked it under his arm. "I'll treat it like a Torah," he promised.

"Good." And Alec smiled, small and wry. "Now get out of my room, mundane."

Simon laughed, and went to do just that – before he remembered, and paused at the door. "We're doing another movie night thing," he told Alec. "Be there, or be square."

Alec looked baffled, and Simon laughed again, slipping out of the room and tugging the door shut behind him.

)0(

It wasn't really a movie _night_, because they started in the afternoon and only broke for toasted sandwiches, but it was a resounding success anyway. Isabelle deigned to grace them with her presence, and Alec cautiously joined them halfway through _The Chamber of Secrets._

"What's going on – ?" he started, but Isabelle flapped her hand to hush him, her eyes fixed on the iPad.

"The Polyjuice potion is wearing off, shut up!"

Alec shut up and settled down to watch.

Simon struggled to concentrate. They were all on the floor again, on blankets and surrounded by drinks and snacks, but this time it wasn't Jace's body that was distracting him. His thoughts kept snagging on Alec's question, on his own feelings. On Jace's. Logic warred with emotion; he kept trying to tell himself that he'd only known Jace for a handful of days, that the intensity came from their hormones and would fizzle out sooner or later and that he should be prepared for that. People who met in life-or-death situations often ended up together – it wasn't just a movie cliché, it was factual, biological, adrenalin and the awareness of mortality pushing people together. Probably when things calmed down – when they rescued Jocelyn – this thing between him and Jace would dim and fade without that fuel of danger.

The thought of it was like a heart attack.

_'You love him?'_

_Chamber of Secrets _finished, and they moved to _Prisoner of Azkaban._ Simon opened the Codex idly, carefully turning pages as Harry dealt with a much more dangerous book on the screen, trying not to be eaten by the _Monster Book of Monsters_. The pages of the Codex did not have teeth, thankfully: they were paper, not parchment and not crumbling, but were faintly yellowed. He was a little disappointed to see that the text was printed, not handwritten as he'd half-expected.

If any of the Shadowhunters thought it odd or rude for Simon to read during a movie, they didn't say anything. Jace glanced at him, but Simon smiled back reassuringly and his _erastes _returned to the adventures of Harry and friends. Restlessly, Simon scanned the dense text, not so much reading as seeking a distraction. There was a section towards the end of the book listing the names and attributes of angels; remembering his new seraph blades, Simon searched out their names, curious to see if there was some meaning behind them, like there had been for Simiel.

There was.

Israfel was an archangel of Islam, the angel of song and music. Appropriate, and also a compliment: according to the Codex Israfel was listed as having 'the sweetest voice in all creation'. But Anael, another archangel (this one Jewish) didn't preside over music but over romantic love. Theliel was the angel prince of love, and Simon had no idea what the difference between an archangel and an angel prince was, but he didn't really need to know.

_'You love him?'_

His fingers shook a little as he turned the page, looking for Sandalphon and carefully not looking up at Jace.

Sandalphon was another angel of music – _the _angel of music, according to the Codex. A leader of the seraphim, he had fought with Michael against Satan and was responsible for guiding people to use their God-given talents to make the world a better place. But the bit that Simon found most interesting was that Sandalphon was one of two angels in existence who had begun life as a human.

Harry was eavesdropping in the Three Broomsticks on the screen; Simon stared at the page, wheels turning in his mind. He thought about the Victorian language of flowers, how men and woman had used arrangements of blossoms to send messages, and wondered if Jace was doing something similar with these angels. If there was a message there.

Beyond the obvious. Two angels of love...His stomach twisted, and he swallowed hard.

A human who had become an angel. Music and love. Jace had chosen archangels and princes and seraphim to protect his _eromenos_, to back up the _armask__ō _blade he had given Simon. So much attention to detail, so much care, to pick angels so appropriate...

_'You love him?'_

Softly, so as not to disturb the others (they were heatedly arguing over whether or not it was right to put down Buckbeak), Simon closed the book and pushed it to the edge of the blankets. His heart was a ripe fruit, delicate flesh bursting with sweetness.

Jace didn't start when Simon touched his wrist. Without looking away from the screen, the corners of his lips curved, and he turned his palm over.

They laced their fingers together and watched the movie.

)0(

They got through _Goblet of Fire_, at which point Isabelle protested the lack of sequels.

"It can't end there! They have to kill Voldemort!"

"The next one's not out on DVD yet," Simon told her, trying not to laugh as she flailed. "But you could just read the books."

"They're books?" Her head snapped around to her brother. "Are they in the library?"

"How should I know?" Alec demanded.

"I'll take you to Borders," Simon promised. "We'll get you the whole series." He grinned. "Except the last one."

"What? I have to have the last one! I need to know how it ends!"

"It came out last month," he told her. "...and immediately sold out."

"ARGH."

He laughed at her distress, because he was an evil, evil person. "I'll lend you my copy," he promised, and she cheered up immediately.

It was late. They'd watched all of the HP movies; it was dark outside, and while Simon was trying to decide between _Star Wars _(which one?) and _LotR: The Two Towers_, the debate became moot when Jace declared a need for sustenance. "Something heartier than sandwiches."

"What about pizza?" Alec suggested.

"I want ananas on mine," Isabelle chimed in.

"Ananas?" Alec frowned.

Jace laughed quietly. "She means pineapple." He grinned at his _parabatai_. "She's trying to be clever."

"I'm not being clever, English is being stupid. It's called ananas in _every other language_. And pineapple is a ridiculous word anyway. Who looked at it and thought 'yes, this looks like an apple from a pine tree'?"

"Somebody drunk?" Simon suggested, shutting down the iPad.

"If the two of you are quite done with besmirching the honour of the English language," Jace said dryly, "maybe we could get moving?"

They made their collective way to the door. "I could probably make pizza from scratch," Isabelle said thoughtfully.

Simon watched with amusement as the other two boys paled. "No need for that," Jace said hurriedly. "It's late, you shouldn't put yourself out for a little pizza."

"And ordering in will be quicker," Alec added.

Isabelle glanced at Simon, her eyes glittering with mirth, and Simon realised that she knew full well that she couldn't cook. He grinned at her, but before he could speak there was a tapping at the door.

Simon froze, but the Shadowhunters were unconcerned. "Sounds like Hugo," Alec commented, and Jace, reaching the door first, opened it.

It was indeed Hodge's raven, hopping from foot to foot impatiently. When he saw the teenagers he flared his wings and cawed, making sure that he had their full attention. When he was certain that he had it he leapt into the air in a flutter of inky feathers and disappeared down the corridor.

The Shadowhunters exchanged glances. "Looks like Hodge found something," Jace said.

)0(

Alec and Isabelle argued the merits of various pizza toppings as Hugo led them to the library, but Jace and Simon were silent. Simon found his insides clenching tight with wondering what Hodge had found, and it didn't take a genius to know Jace was remembering the circumstances in which Simon had discovered the runes. The light-heartedness that had been so buoyant just a few minutes ago had gone the way of the Titanic.

The library was just as beautiful as before, though. Simon felt some of his nervousness fade as he stepped inside. No matter where you went, a library was always a sanctuary for someone who loved books. There were a thousand means of escape here – escape from anything, everything. Surrounded by countless doors to other worlds, it was hard not to feel safe.

Hodge had arranged four chairs in front of his desk. When he spotted them, he gestured for them to take the seats. "Come in, all of you. I believe that I have puzzled out your runes, Simon."

Simon's phone vibrated in his pocket just as he sat down; without considering the breach of etiquette he pulled it out. There were only a handful of people who had his number – his mother, Clary, Luke, Eric and the guys – and none of them, with the exception of Luke, were people he would willingly ignore. Not now, when it could be so important.

"Simon?"

It was a text from Clary. Simon stared at it, his lungs turned to glass inside his ribcage.

_Your spelling was all wrong, but I figured it out. Where'd you hear this – from lover boy?_

Beneath it she had copied out the definition of _ya'aburnee_, and it was that that made his heart stop. He'd wondered if it might be a Shadowhunter word, and thus something Google couldn't provide an answer for, but...

_Ya'aburnee (Arabic): literally 'you bury me'. The hope that a loved one will outlive you so you never have to deal with the pain of living without them. _

"Simon?"

Simon looked up, his fingers tight around his phone. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Is everything all right?" Hodge looked concerned, not annoyed, but Simon remembered the manners his mother had drummed into him and snapped the phone shut. He was achingly, hyperconciously aware of Jace sitting next to him, but if he looked at the blond he would – he would –

"Yeah. Everything's fine, sorry." He swallowed and shoved his phone into his pocket. "What did you find?"

"Actually, it was not so much a matter of _finding_ as _remembering_." Hodge had several sheets of paper spread out on the desk in front of him, covered in runes both familiar to Simon – from his dream, from the blood and the music – and strange. "I'm quite embarrassed that it took me so long."

Jace sat up straighter in his chair. "You know these runes?"

"Of course, my dear boy." Hodge glanced over at Simon. "They are Jocelyn's."


	23. Chapter 23

This chapter is dedicated to all my awesome readers, and especially to PathofAldebourne, Lilien Kate, and chocolatelover1, for reviews that MADE MY DAY.

Enjoy! :D

* * *

"Not that your mother created them, of course," Hodge added. "But she did design this _telesma_." He gestured to the pages in front of him.

"She was a runecaster?" Isabelle asked, her eyes wide.

Jace was frowning. "I thought she was a Shadowhunter?"

_Ya'aburnee_. The word was a soft breath in Simon's mind, one that stole all of the air out of the room. But they were talking about his mother. He struggled to catch up and pay attention, his heartbeat thrumming under his ribcage. "Could somebody explain for the noob in the room?"

Instead of an explanation, they gave him four odd looks until he said, frustrated, "a newbie, someone who doesn't know stuff. Can we get on with it?"

"Forgive me, Simon." Hodge looked chastened. "Runecasters are a Shadowhunter sect, like the Silent Brothers. They work to create _telesmes, _which combine several runes to create a new effect different to all of them."

Simon frowned. "So...they make new runes?"

"Of course not," Alec said scathingly. "That's impossible."

"Think of it as like cooking," Hodge said hurriedly. "But instead of eggs and flour and sugar, a runecaster uses Marks, and creates a _telesma _rather than a cake."

"Like the scrying _telesma_," Isabelle added helpfully. "Which is made up of the clairvoyant, insight, precision and _mnemosyne _runes."

"Yeah, but anyone can cook," Simon pointed out. "What makes runecasters so special?"

"The eggs are bombs," Jace said dryly.

"...Oh."

"It takes great skill to create _telesmes_," Hodge explained. "It is not enough to just scrawl the runes next to each other. To use Isabelle's example, I could mark _clairvoyance, insight, precision _and _mnemosyne _on my arm, but I would not be able to scry the location of even the Empire State building if they were not drawn in the precise design that allows them to interact with each other."

"And if a _telesma _is even slightly off, it has a tendency to explode," Jace continued, still in that perfectly even tone. "Which is why most Shadowhunters don't use them. If you draw a rune incorrectly, it just won't work, but a bad _telesma _can kill you."

Simon's head spun. "And my mom can make these things?"

"Indeed. She was very good at it, but she kept her talent a secret. Only her friends knew – I don't believe she even told her parents."

"How come? It's this incredible thing, right? Why wouldn't she tell people?"

"Because," Alec said, "runecasters are like the Silent Brothers. They fight in other ways, but not in the field." His eyes were fixed on Hodge, and he was frowning. "It's completely illegal for them to risk themselves in battle. You should have told someone!" This was directed to his tutor.

Hodge met his gaze calmly. "And would you report Jace, if he suddenly developed a runecaster's powers?"

"I – " Alec paused, uncertain.

"That's different," Isabelle said. "He's our brother."

Hodge sighed. "It has been one of my biggest regrets that the three of you have had so little contact with others of your own age. I argued for all of you to be sent to Idris for schooling, but Maryse wouldn't hear of it. And now I fear that you have no grasp of what true friendship is." He looked over the three Shadowhunter teenagers. "You are a family, the three of you – but you have no friends. And there is a very great difference between them."

"Friends are the family you choose," Simon murmured, thinking of Clary.

Hodge looked startled by the interruption, but he nodded. "Yes. Precisely." He returned his attention to his students. "Many families are not as close as yours. Husband and wives separate. Siblings grow apart, perhaps even move far away from each other. Blood can mean very little, in the end. But real friends can last forever, and the fact of the matter, Alec, is that we were more loyal to Jocelyn than we were to the Clave."

_And you were more loyal to Valentine than to your little Clave as well_, Simon thought with a sudden flash of steel.

But Alec seemed to have come to some understanding within himself: he shook his head. "We're Nephilim," he insisted. "Bound by Raziel's blood to each other and to the Clave. Blood is thicker than water, Hodge. You had a duty and you failed it."

Jace and Isabelle both stared at Alec, Isabelle with surprise, and Jace impassively.

Looking very tired, Hodge said softly, "_Dam habrit ava yoter mimayim shel harehem_."

Jace frowned. " 'The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb'?"

"Yes. The phrase 'blood is thicker than water' is a corrupted shorthand." Hodge spoke quietly. "The original phrase states that the bond between the ones you choose – either through taking the oath of the Jewish covenant, or by becoming blood-brothers – is stronger than that between family members."

They were all silent at that.

Hodge shook his head. "But we have become greatly side-tracked," he said firmly. "We were discussing your mother, Simon, and her _telesma_. From the runes you saw, I think I can safely say that it is your mother's favourite _telesma_, the one she used to place solid objects in her artwork. But I cannot be entirely certain until you show us the pattern you saw them in."

"I think I can remember," Simon said, dazed. His mind was racing, thoughts catching like sparks on tinder. "You mean she could put things in her pictures?"

"The paintings at your apartment," Jace said suddenly. "They were all torn out of their frames."

And they had been. Because Valentine had been Jocelyn's husband; he must have known what she could do. "He must have thought the Cup was in one of them..."

"Or hoped, at least," Hodge agreed. "But I think we can safely assume that he was wrong. We would know by now if he had the Cup, I think."

"Is nobody else curious about where Simon saw those runes?" Isabelle asked suddenly. She turned her head to face Simon, donning an elegant frown the way another young woman would a piece of jewellery. "I thought you said you didn't know anything about the Shadow World?"

"I didn't. Hell, I'm not sure I do now." Simon rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "I dreamed them. The runes. I know how insane that sounds, but – "

...But none of them looked the least bit sceptical. Isabelle nodded once and sat back in her chair, apparently satisfied. When Simon glanced at him questioningly, Jace shrugged. "Nephilim know to pay attention to their dreams."

It was Simon's turn to frown. "You think you can see the future in your dreams?"

Alec snorted. "Not without a foresight rune," he said before Jace could answer. "Dreams are your subconscious' way of organising your mind. They're not messages from the future, they're messages from _yourself_."

"Your mother probably showed you the _telesma_ and then made you forget it," Jace added. "In case you ever needed it. And when you did, your subconscious offered it up to you via a dream."

_In case you ever needed it._ Which it seemed he did. Simon glanced at Hodge. "Don't you remember what the pattern is?"

"For the _telesma_? I'm sorry, Simon, but I do not. It has been a very long time, and I fear I could not draw it correctly."

Simon nodded slowly. "Guess it's up to me, then. Anybody have a pen?"

A pen was found, and Simon bent over a piece of paper, casting his mind back to the dream. Then he froze. "Uh...I'm not going to blow up if I get this wrong, am I?"

"Not with paper and ink," Hodge reassured him.

"Although you might set the paper on fire," Isabelle piped up. She sounded far too excited by the prospect.

"Oh, _that's_ reassuring," Simon muttered under his breath. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, playing over the dream in his mind. His mom had given him the envelope...There had been the tarot card inside, and Simon had stared at it. And then it was ripped from his hand, and he'd bled on it...

Slowly, more than a little nervously, Simon moved his pen over the paper. The music – what he now guessed was the song of the _telesma _– sounded in his head, but as if from far away. It didn't sweep him under this time; instead, it was like listening to someone give instructions, like morse code embedded in strings and crystalline flutes. His brain was a transducer, converting the song into angles, curves, positioning.

_Straight left...now go down...make a right-angled curve just there...Now move to North-North-West_...

The runes formed a circle, a clock-face with Marks counting down the time Jocelyn had left, and Simon sketched them in, holding the bloodied card in his mind. It was not a perfect circle, though, but that actually made it easier; it felt more natural, it flowed better. _Wabi-sabi_, the Japanese aesthetic of flawed beauty. He remembered his mom talking about it after one of her pottery classes. True perfection could only be achieved with imperfection...

He stopped when the music stopped. When he looked up, they were all staring at him, and he felt a flush of embarrassment. "What?"

Jace was pale. "You were humming," he said quietly.

"And you didn't set anything on fire." Isabelle sounded disappointed.

"Which means that it was correctly drawn. May I, Simon?" Simon relinquished the paper, and Hodge inspected it. "Yes. That is most definitely Jocelyn's _telesma_. There can be no doubt about it." He placed the paper back on the desk, handling it as if it were a sheet of gold leaf.

"Now we only have to find the picture Simon's mother hid the Cup in," Alec said.

"No," Simon said. "We don't." He stared at the paper, at the runes measuring his mother's life like hours on a clock. Adrenalin tightened his stomach, pooling sick and cold and electric. Had they counted down already? Was Jocelyn still alive? He blinked hard, his breath shuddering quick and uneven in his throat for a second. She'd congratulated him on his _armask__ō_bond, in the dream. Right before handing him the key to the Cup."I know where it is."

When he looked up, Jace was staring at him, and Simon had no name for the look in his eyes.

)0(

"It's not our job to get the Cup," Alec insisted. The five of them had moved to the kitchen, and the table was scattered with rapidly emptying pizza boxes. "There are operatives of the Clave in this city right now looking for it. Pass the information on to them and let _them_ get it."

"Dorothea was barely willing to talk to _me_," Jace said. "If the Clave show up on her doorstep, she's going to bolt straight through her Portal, and then we'll never find her. _Or_ the Cup."

"Jace is correct," Hodge said. He ate his pizza with a knife and fork, cutting each slice into small, neat pieces. Simon tried not to stare. "Jocelyn hid the Cup with great care. She did not want it to fall into the hands of the Clave; Valentine stole it from them once before, after all. No, she clearly wanted only one person to be able to find it, and that is Simon, and Simon alone."

_Then let him go alone._ Simon could see the words on Alec's face, as clearly as a tattoo, but to his surprise Alec didn't say them. Maybe their talk had done some good. He seemed to be making an effort to tone down the kryptonite, anyway. Simon was grateful.

Isabelle tossed a beribboned braid over her shoulder. "Well, I'm game."

"As well you should be. Think of the glory if we bring the Mortal Cup back to Idris!" Jace's eyes were bright, the same wild light in them that Simon had seen when Jace laughed at the Forsaken. "Our names will never be forgotten."

"I don't care about glory." Alec's gaze was missing the same mania, but he never looked away from Jace's face. "I care about not doing anything stupid."

"What do we do with it once we have it?" Simon didn't realise he'd spoken aloud until he saw them all staring at him. "Well? I'm with Alec on this one: I don't care about glory either." He wanted to grin at Alec's obvious surprise, but the urge quickly faded. "I want my mom back. Is getting the Cup going to help? Because if we're just doing this to hand it back to the Clave, just because – then I'm not interested."

"Of course the Cup must be reclaimed," Hodge said, shocked. "It can hardly be left with Dorothea forever."

"Why not?" Simon challenged. He looked at Jace. "You told me that it kills people. Almost everyone who drinks from it. And the Clave clearly can't take proper care of it. So why shouldn't it stay lost?"

"I said _Valentine_ would kill a lot of people with it," Jace corrected him. "Because he wouldn't care about using it properly."

"It's one of the Mortal Instruments!" Isabelle said. "You can't just – " Words failed her.

"Would you burn the Mona Lisa?" Alec asked. "Or the Sistine Chapel?" He blinked at Simon's incredulous look. "What? I said _we _shouldn't go get it, not that nobody should."

"Well, if the Mona Lisa _killed people_, then yeah, I would burn it," Simon snapped. "Or if some psychopath could use it to _take over the world._" He glared around the table. "None of you have answered my question. What do we do once we have it? We can't give it to Valentine. If the Clave get it Valentine'll just steal it from them again. So what's the point in going to get it?" He looked at Hodge. "How many people can draw my mom's _telesma_?"

"At the moment?" Hodge asked quietly. "Two. Her, and you. Since Jocelyn was not an official runecaster, her _telesma_ never entered the records. No one else knows it."

"Right. So even if Valentine figures out where it is, he can't get it out of the picture. Why not leave it where it is?"

"Simon..." Isabelle's voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "He has your mom. He could make her get it out for him."

Simon froze.

_Do you think Valentine _listens_ when your mother begs him not to –_

He took a deep breath. "All right."

A pause. "That's it?" Alec asked, surprised. "You change your mind just like that?"

Simon turned and stared at him.

"Alec," Hodge said gently, "what if it was Maryse?"

"We're going to need a car," Jace interjected quickly. He was clearly trying to change the subject; Simon let him, looking away from Alec and towards his _erastes_. "Preferably a big one."

"Why?" asked Isabelle. "We've never needed one before."

"We've never had to worry about having an immeasurably precious object with us before. I don't want to haul it on the L train."

"There's taxis," Isabelle parried. "Rental vans."

"No," Jace said. "I want an environment we control. I don't want to deal with taxi drivers or mundane rental companies when we're doing something this important."

"I have a car." Simon's voice surprised him; it sounded hoarse, and he swallowed before trying again. "Or, there's one I can use. A van."

Jace's nose wrinkled. "That hideous yellow thing?"

"No, the bright blue phone box I keep in my pocket," Simon snapped. "Yes, the yellow thing!"

"I suppose it will do," Jace said reluctantly.

Isabelle rolled her eyes.

"The four of you should leave in the morning," Hodge said.

"If it's for my mom, I'd rather go tonight," Simon countered.

"Nevertheless," the tutor said calmly, "it's growing dark. Anything you might encounter will be stronger at night. It would be safer to go tomorrow, when you are all fresh and rested."

Simon struggled with an instinctive protest, but he couldn't deny that what Hodge said made sense. "Fine," he said with ill grace. He shoved his chair back from the table and got to his feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm full. I'm going to call Clary." He left them without looking back, stalking away to his room.

)0(

"No problem," Clary assured him. "I'll head over to Eric's first thing tomorrow and drive the van down to you." She paused. "Should I brush up on my Latin?"

"I don't think we're expecting to meet any demons, no." Simon stared up at the ceiling, his phone clutched to his ear. His vision was solid, but he could feel the world trembling, vibrating. Flickers of silver and jade licked over the underside of his skin, brushing unchaste snowflake kisses against his veins. He tried to resist their attentions, the pull of the thing Jace called a battle trance, but he could feel the door beckoning. "Digging out your Star of David might not be the worst idea, though."

"Noted. So how come you guys aren't going tonight?"

"Less dangerous to go tomorrow, apparently. I don't think demons like sunlight," he said, remembering what Dorothea had said on the subject. "Maybe other monsters don't either."

"Makes sense." She hesitated. "Simon, you know giving Valentine the Cup won't work, don't you?" she blurted. "It never does. In the history of ever, there has never been a bad guy who didn't double cross the swap."

"I know. We're not planning on giving it to Valentine. I don't – "

Someone knocked at the door. Simon sat up abruptly, awhirl with emotion. "Clary, I've got to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Be safe."

Simon snapped the phone shut and pushed it into his pocket. "Come in."

He wasn't surprised to see Jace when the door opened. At the sight of him he heard Jace say that word again – _Ya'aburnee_, soft and raw as if it had been torn from him. A velvet caress against the inside of Simon's skull and a silver sphere in his throat, blocking his air.

"You forgot dessert." Jace held up a white bowl. The steam that rose beguilingly from it smelled like baking cookies. "Clearly that was not intentional, so I thought I'd bring it up to you."

"You are truly a prize," Simon said automatically. He was, as well; Jace had even put a scoop of vanilla ice cream into the bowl, which only highlighted the deliciousness of the warm cookie dough.

For a while there was no need to talk. Simon lay on his stomach on the bed, and Jace perched on its edge, the two of them sitting in silence as they demolished the dessert with long handled spoons. It should have been companionable, easy, but it wasn't: the Arabic word ran around and round Simon's mind, echoing like a struck bell. After a bit he set his spoon down: his stomach was twisted too tightly to eat.

He took the plunge. "Alec told me what the Clave might to do to you," he said quickly, before his nerve could fail him. "I said I'd talk to you about it."

Jace stilled. Even now, Simon found the bandwidth to be fascinated. He'd seen Jace do it before, and Isabelle, but it was just unreal, the way Shadowhunters could sink into such utter stillness. For a moment he wasn't sure Jace even breathed.

"This is a new experience for me," Jace mused, breaking the silence. "I've never had someone give me the 'we need to talk' line before."

"I'm _not_ breaking up with you," Simon said hurriedly. He swallowed. "Unless – you want to, I guess." He shook his head, frustrated. "Look, I just – I want you to know that I know, okay? What you're risking, for us." _Everything. _He exhaled and went on. "I'm not going to lie, it's a pretty big ego boost. But – are you sure?"

"Is anyone ever really sure of anything?" Jace asked philosophically. "The human race can't even make up its mind as to whether it even exists. Descartes said 'I think, therefore – ' "

"_Jace._" Despite himself, Simon couldn't help grinning. "I'm being serious."

"No, you're not." Jace put his spoon down in the bowl and slid onto his knees on the floor, so their faces were at the same height. Simon was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were on a bed. He shivered a little when Jace reached up, his callused hands gently cupping Simon's face as he leaned in and brushed their lips together in a feather-light kiss. "You're trying to ask me," he breathed against Simon's mouth, "if I think you're worth a world."

Simon swallowed hard. Touching Jace was like being plugged into the mains – Simon couldn't help but sing, feeling the blond's wild gold twist and sear through Simon's copper veins, lighting up cell after cell. "Do you?" he whispered.

Jace smiled slowly. "You already know the answer to that." He kissed Simon again, lightly, and pulled away. "Now, you should finish your dessert. Alec and Izzy are coming up in a minute to watch more movies."

)0(

That night, Simon slept alone for the first time in days, and even Jace's presence on the other side of the wall couldn't make the darkness any lighter.

Staring up at the ceiling, Simon saw, over and over, his mom smiling in the silk dress she'd worn in his dream. He saw the Ace of Cups being torn from his fingers. He saw the blood form Jocelyn's _telesma_, in red, dark lines.

_I'm coming to get you, mom. I swear, I'll get you home safe. _

He fell asleep clutching a fully extended Simiel under his pillow.

)0(

They gathered in the library at dawn, the four teenagers all in black and Hodge watching beneficently from behind his desk, Hugo picking at the remains of the Shadowhunters' quick breakfast. Isabelle was winding her glittering whip around her left wrist, where Simon wore his _armask__ō_blade back in the vambrace, and his other seraph swords hidden in the belt at his waist. Alec had a quiver of arrows lashed across his shoulder and a leather bracer sheathing his right arm. He gave Simon a short nod – of acceptance? Respect? Simon couldn't tell – before moving to start drawing Marks on Jace. He and Isabelle were already covered in them, dark and bright as Chinese calligraphy.

"Their runes are stronger that way," Isabelle said. Simon jumped: he hadn't seen her move, but now she was standing right next to him. She nodded her chin at the boys. "Because they're _parabatai_. When they draw runes for each other, they're stronger than if someone else Marked them."

"Interesting," Simon said absently. Jace was laughing at something Alec had said. He had the sleeve of his jacket rolled up, his chin on his shoulder. Alec was smiling.

Simon pushed his hand into his jacket pocket. Unwilling to leave his _armask__ō_ cuff behind but unable to wear it with the vambraces, he'd slipped the bracelet into his pocket when he dressed, and now without thinking he brushed his thumb over the metal-and-crystal stars, fingering the leather and the smooth, soothing twist of the wire clasp as Alec and Jace bickered.

"Come on, Alec, it's a basic _iratze_," Jace said, clearly teasing despite the slight strain in his face. Remembering how it had felt to have the glamour rune drawn on him, Simon wasn't surprised. "By the Angel, how hard can it – "

"I'm trying to be careful." Alec swatted Jace's other shoulder without looking away from his task. "Stop moving."

Jace grinned, but kept still until Alec released him. "_Finally_. Thanks." He lowered his arm, flexing his fingers. Alec hid a smile like a candleflame behind stained glass, and busied himself with his arrows as Jace turned to Simon. "You have all your blades?"

Isabelle smirked. "You always did like girls killing things, Jace. I guess now it's Simon who gets you all hot and bothered."

Alec stiffened.

"I like anyone killing things," Jace said lightly. "Especially me."

Simon rolled his eyes. "I do have them. And we should get going."

Hodge rose from his chair. He looked tired – tired and old. "May the Angel watch over you all," he said, and Hugo alighted from his shoulder with a loud cawing, disappearing into the shadows of the peaked ceiling like a dark angel.

)0(

"Oh, no. _No._ One mundane is enough!" Alec protested, seeing who was driving the van. He jabbed his finger at Clary, who waved regally in response. "She is _not _coming!"

"Fine. But you're the one telling her." Simon smiled sweetly at Alec's expression. The older boy seemed to have swallowed a lemon, or maybe his tongue. "If you dare."

Alec spluttered. Jace was trying very hard not to laugh. "You know what they say, Alec," he murmured, low enough that the rest of them could pretend not to hear. "Don't mess with a red-head."

"But what's she _doing _here?" Alec asked plaintively.

"You hate magic," Simon reminded him. "How else was I going to get the van here?"

"Fly it like Ron and Harry did?" Isabelle suggested.

Clary rolled down the window and stuck her head out. "Get in, losers, we're going demon-hunting!"

Simon laughed. The others all just stared at her, bewildered. "No we're not," Alec said warily.

Jace looked up at the sky. "Are all mundanes this crazy," he asked the heavens, "or did we just get lucky?"

Swallowing his laughter, Simon grinned and punched his shoulder. "You got damn lucky, and you should be grateful to be in the presence of such awesomeness. Now get in."

"I was kind of hoping it would have magically change colour," Jace sighed, but he was grinning too as he climbed into the back of the van.

Simon couldn't blame him for his hope. The van was...most unfortunate looking. Eric had, in a moment of whimsy that had possibly occurred under the influence of weed, painted the entire thing neon yellow. Since then it had become spotted with rust, so that now it looked like nothing so much as a giant rotting banana.

Oh well. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Nice bow," Clary told Alec, nodding approvingly.

Alec paused in the middle of getting into the van. "Are you an archer?" His scathing expression and dubious tone said that he highly doubted it.

Clary smiled at him. "You could say that."

Alec opened his mouth to reply, but Jace leaned out of the van and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't," he said lowly, so that Simon wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't strained to listen. "Simon's an incredible shot. It wouldn't surprise me if she is too."

Looking slightly stunned, Alec glanced at Simon. Simon smiled and shooed him into his seat.

"Did I hear you say they don't like magic?" Clary asked as Simon settled into shot gun. "What about their tattoos?"

"They are _not_ tattoos," Jace growled, "and they are _not _magic!"

"Don't listen to them, they're in denial," Simon told her. "They're totally magic."

"Simon!"

Clary and Simon exchanged identical grins.

The Shadowhunters settled themselves and their arsenal, and Clary started the engine just as it began to rain. The sky was still dim, the sunrise struggling to pierce the storm clouds, and Simon wondered if this was what it would have felt like on Noah's Ark, this small bastion of light and warmth amidst all the watery shadows. Jace, Isabelle and Alec discussed tactics in low voices; Simon turned on the radio, but left it quiet.

"You know, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," he said suddenly as Clary turned onto the FDR parkway, the highway that ran alongside the East River. "You were dancing with that faerie girl at Magnus' party the other night."

"That's a statement, not a question," Clary commented, unfazed.

Simon gave her a wry look. "Okay, smart-ass, here's my question. Do you like girls?"

"Well _sure _I like girls, Simon," she drawled, smirking. "I like all kinds of things. I like video games and Sailor Moon and Wincest, I like liquorice, I like Indian bridal jewellery, I like Fallout Boy..." She glanced across at him. "Why don't you ask what you really mean?"

Simon frowned, confused. "Which is what?"

"Did I turn you down because I'm a lesbian."

"Uh..." He paused. "To be honest, that did not occur to me."

Her eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"It occurred to _me_," Jace said under his breath, not quite low enough to be inaudible.

Simon turned around in his seat, grinning. "Aw. Thank you, snookums. You say the sweetest things."

Alec made choking noises as his sister giggled.

"But no," Simon continued, turning back to his best friend, "I figured that you knew all my flaws and dirty secrets, and knew you could do better."

Jace muttered again, but this time Simon couldn't make out what he said. He couldn't help grinning like an idiot anyway.

Clary glanced in the rear-view mirror. She was smiling too. "You know, you might just be salvageable yet, Wayland."

"This is a very strange conversation," Isabelle commented. "But do please continue. It's fascinating."

"Next time, you can all watch the iPad in the back like good little kids." Simon sighed, more than half-wishing he'd brought it to keep them occupied, and amused by the thought. "You can tell me to fuck off," he told Clary. "If you don't want to talk about it."

"It's true, it's not really any of your business," Clary agreed. But she didn't sound annoyed. She glanced at his face, and took pity on him. "Do I like girls? I don't know. I liked _her. _Olianthe." She shrugged. "I'm not really interested in sticking a label on it."

Simon nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

Isabelle abruptly darted forward, resting her elbows on the shoulders of Clary's and Simon's seats. "Did you say _Olianthe?_" she demanded.

Clary blinked. "Yeah? Why?"

"By the _Angel_." She fell back into her seat, her eyes raised to heaven. "We can't take you two _anywhere._ _You_ – " She pointed a manicured fingernail at the back of Simon's head, "go and seduce a scion of the First Families in your first week as a Nephilim – "

Jace spluttered. _"Excuse me?"_

" – and _you_," Isabelle continued without pause for the interruption, turning her attention to Clary, "you make out with a faerie princess! At your very first Shadow World party!" She threw up her hands. "Mundanes ought to be kept on _leashes!_"

Now, there was an idea... Simon bit his tongue sharply to clear his mind's eye, his cheeks flushing a little. Then his brain caught up to what Isabelle had just said. "There was making out?"

Without taking her eyes off the road Clary leaned over and swatted him.

"Ow!"

"Of course she was a princess," Clary said calmly, ignoring him. "This does not surprise me in the least. Have you seen me? I am stunningly attractive. Obviously only royalty is good enough for this face."

Everyone considered this for a moment.

"You know, I think you and I are going to be very good friends," Isabelle decided.

Clary smirked.

In the back, Alec groaned. "I don't think we need to worry about Valentine," he said mournfully. "These two will have conquered the world before he ever gets the chance."

"The _universe_," both girls corrected in unison. Their eyes met in the mirror, and they both burst out laughing.

Simon grinned, turning to stare out the window at the rain. "Be afraid, Valentine," he murmured only half playfully as Clary directed the van onto the Manhattan Bridge, and towards home. "Be very, very afraid..."

)0(

The rain had been reduced to a light drizzle by the time Clary pulled up in front of Simon's house. Sunlight was spilling through the clouds in long, watery beams, growing stronger and brighter even as the Shadowhunters clambered out of the van. Simon and Clary were ordered to wait while the others scoured the outside of the building with their Sensors, checking for signs of demonic activity.

Within minutes, they gave the all clear. "Low activity," Jace informed them when the Shadowhunters came back. "Probably just the Forsaken, and they might not even bother us unless we get into the upstairs apartment."

"But Simon's copy of _The Deathly Hallows _is in there!" Isabelle protested.

Alec gave his sister a bemused look.

Simon was no longer in the mood for laughter. He rubbed his thumb over Simiel absently, looking up at the house and wondering what they were going to find in it. Forsaken were bad enough, in his opinion. He admired them all, Jace and Alec and Isabelle, but he had no idea how they could be so blasé about walking into danger.

Maybe Shadowhunters were all insane. It would explain a lot.

Alec heaved the canvas bag full of weaponry onto the sidewalk. "Ready to go," he declared. "Let's kick some demon butt!"

Definitely insane. Even Jace eyed Alec sideways. "You all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine." Alec paused, then set aside his bow and quiver. Instead he picked up a polished featherstaff of dark wood, the kind of thing Simon had only seen in WoW. "This is better," Alec said, two shining blades springing from the ends of the staff at a touch of his fingers.

"But the bow..." Isabelle glanced at it, concerned. "Are you sure?"

"I know what I'm doing, Isabelle." Alec spun the staff slowly, his face set.

Clary shrugged. "Well, if you don't want it." She twisted out of her seat and snatched it up – and froze like a startled deer as a group of young mothers passed the van, pushing a cluster of strollers towards the park. They were laughing – which Simon didn't understand, given the time of day; who wouldn't be in bed at this hour if they could? – but they didn't so much as glance at the Shadowhunters armed to the teeth on the pavement.

"What the hell?" Clary stared after them, then looked back at the assembled Nephilim. "You guys are glamoured? But I can see you!"

Something sharp flashed across Alec's face, and his hand flew to his pocket as Jace said "Yes, but you know the truth of what you're looking at."

"Alec?" Isabelle asked. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Alec said quickly. His cheeks were flushed. He hesitated a moment, then abruptly pulled something out of his pocket and strode over to the van, shoving his closed his fist towards Clary.

Simon snapped forward, thinking Alec was going to punch her, but he only uncurled his fingers to her. "I – this is for you."

They all stared at him. Slowly, as if it might explode if she made any sudden movements, Clary reached out and picked up the round thing on Alec's palm. It was a stone, a rough circle like the one Simon made by putting his forefinger and thumb together. A spill of silver fell from it; a strong chain with thick, strong links.

"Um...thank you?"

Alec's blush deepened; he stepped back hurriedly. "It's not from me. It's from Magnus."

Isabelle's expression suddenly morphed from confusion to smugness. Clary's eyebrows made for the sky. "The sparkly guy gave me a present?"

"When did you see Magnus?" Jace demanded.

"He came to the Institute. To give me that. For Clary." Alec wouldn't meet Jace's eyes. Jace frowned.

"What is it?" Simon interrupted.

"A faerie stone." Isabelle plucked it from Clary's fingers and let it dangle from its chain. The stone spun slowly. "If you look through it you can see the Shadow World. See through any glamour. One this size is _priceless_."

Clary snatched it back from her and immediately put it to her eye. She scrutinised Jace carefully; Jace, amused, held still and let her.

After a moment or two Clary sighed, dropping the stone and slipping the necklace over her head. "Well, either it's a dud or you really are that good-looking."

Simon choked. Isabelle laughed. "_Best_ friends," she grinned.

Clary looked at her, charmed. "I think I could live with that."

"Hey!" Simon protested.

"Best _girl_ friends," Clary corrected.

Alec seemed to have recovered from his embarrassment. "Are we doing this or not?" he demanded, hefting his staff.

"By all means," Clary said, turning to him. Grasping the bow again, she hopped out of the van at last and onto the sidewalk. "Let's do this thing."

Jace blocked her path. "Where do you think you're going?"

Simon dived for cover behind Isabelle.

Clary fixed Jace with a cool stare. "With you, of course."

"There's no 'of course' about it," he said. "I wouldn't even be taking Simon if we didn't need him to draw the _telesma_, and you have less training than he does."

Clary drew herself up. "And you're going to stop me, I suppose?" she asked dangerously.

Jace smirked.

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle stepped in before Clary could explode, patting Simon's shoulder reassuringly. "Someone has to stay with the van," she told Clary. "It's not a nothing job, it's important. Sunlight's fatal to demons, but not to Forsaken. If they chase us out here, the engine needs to be running. Or what if the van gets towed?"

Grudgingly, Clary acquiesced to this logic. But she had one parting shot for Jace. "I take back what I said about you being good-looking."

"You can take back saying it, but you can't make it untrue," he replied smugly.

Alec looked back and forth between them as Clary climbed back into the van, grumbling. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "in another world, I could see the two of you getting together. You have all this..." He gestured vaguely. "_Tension_."

They both turned to him with matching expressions of horror.

Alec held up his hands in surrender. "Just a thought!"

Simon wondered if Alec would have been happier if Jace had fallen for Clary instead of Simon. He shrugged, dismissing the question. He should be focussing on remembering the _telesma _correctly...

The smell, when they walked through the front door, was like being punched in the face. Simon had never smelled anything like it: it was disgusting, reminiscent of rotting garbage in a heat wave, but infinitely worse. Simon gagged, but beside him Jace inhaled deeply, a smile at the corner of his lips as if the scent was something sweet to be savoured. "Demons have been here," he announced, his eyes gleaming with a cool joy that was at once unnerving and compelling. "Recently, too."

But they weren't here now. Still, Simon unhitched Simiel from its setting in his vambrace and folded his gloved hand around it. It was eerily quiet; he thought he could hear his heartbeat.

He thought he could hear _Jace's_. But he had to be imagining it.

Taking a deep breath, Simon strode across the foyer towards Dorothea's door, glancing up warily at the upstairs landing. He still remembered how the Forsaken had come bursting out; remembered seeing that Jace was about to fall and plunging Simiel into the creature's back to avert it.

He remembered the sickening crunch, and the smell of the blood.

The entry way was still dark – with Jocelyn gone, no Luke had been visiting to do all Dorothea's odd jobs, and the skylight was still grimy with dirt, the lightbulb still out and awaiting a replacement. It meant that the four of them moved through heavy shadow, thick and almost moist with the heat and lit only by the brightly glowing stone that Jace held out in front of him.

"Witchlight," he said at Simon's questioning glance.

Simon looked away. His insides were twisting and untwisting, but he didn't know why he was so on edge.

They reached Dorothea's door, and Simon knocked on it.

Almost instantly it swung inward. The seeress drew herself up, a regal vision somewhat spoiled by the bright orange and green of her outfit, which brought to mind unfortunate comparisons to pumpkins. Her neon yellow turban was outlined by the golden light that spilled past her and into the foyer, and her chandelier earrings glittered and sparkled distractingly. Her large feet were entirely bare.

Except for her toe nails. Those were a surprisingly tasteful pale pink.

"Simon!"

Simon had no chance to react before he was engulfed in Madame Dorothea's voluptuous embrace. For a moment he thought he was going to be smothered in the folds of velvet-clad flesh, and he tried to flail for air.

"Good Lord, boy," said the witch, taking the hint and releasing him. Simon gasped, inhaling precious oxygen greedily. "The last time I saw you, you vanished in front of my eyes! And now look at you!" She looked him up and down, clearly not liking what she saw. "Got you dressed up as one of them now, have they?"

"Yes, Madame Dorothea." Impulsively he added "But I still think the Clave are dicks."

She hooted. "You tell 'em, boy! Now come in, come in." She ushered them all inside, clucking her tongue at Simon's gear. "Shame. Such a crying shame," she muttered.

Nothing seemed to have changed since Simon's last visit. The same quasi-magical (or maybe really magical, what did Simon know?) bric-a-brac was scattered over every available surface. The smell of incense was even thicker than before, if that was possible, making the air smoky and interesting to breathe, but at least it was better than the demon-smog outside.

Dorothea lowered herself into an armchair. The crystal ball and tarot deck were on the table in front of her; Simon resisted the urge to lunge for the cards. He knew there was no way they could trade the Cup for Jocelyn, but something inside him still equated the Ace of Cups with his mother's safe return. The Cup was the quest object; once they had it, everything was supposed to fall into place, magically solved, a happy ending wrapped up in a _New High Score!_

It wasn't going to be that easy. But it was difficult to remember that.

"I take it you haven't located your mother?" Dorothea asked, settling herself more comfortably in her perch. The grandmotherly air had disappeared, replaced by a sharp, intense scrutiny.

"No. But we know who took her." Simon forced himself to stop imagining happy endings and met Dorothea's gaze squarely. The Lightwoods were examining one of the divinatory posters on the walls, and Jace lounged indolently against a chair arm, but Simon knew that despite appearances all three of them were paying close attention. "Valentine."

The seeress hurrumphed. "I feared as much. Do you know what he wants with her?"

"He thinks she has the Mortal Cup. Or knows where it is." Simon paused as something occurred to him. "Do you know what that is?"

Dorothea leaned back as if struck. "Of course I know what it is!" she exclaimed. "The Cup of the Angel. Raziel's Cup, in which he mixed the blood of angels and the blood of men and gave of this mixture to a man to drink, and created the first Shadowhunter!"

"That would be the one," Jace said mildly.

"Why on earth would he think Jocelyn had it?" Dorothea demanded, clearly baffled. "Of all people..." Suddenly her eyes widened, and she fixed Simon with a piercing look. "Unless she wasn't Jocelyn Fray at all. She was the wife, wasn't she? Jocelyn Fairchild, the one everyone thought died. She took the Cup and fled with it, didn't she?"

Something about the look in her eyes made Simon uneasy, but before he could do more than nod Dorothea lowered her gaze, her expression turning thoughtful. Or was that avarice? "So," she said, "do you know what you're going to do now? Wherever she's hidden it, it can't be easy to find – if you even want it found. Valentine could do terrible things with his hands on that Cup."

"That's why we're here," Simon said, recovering himself. "My mom gave the Cup to you. I don't think you knew that; I think she didn't tell you what you had so that you'd be safer."

"She gave it to you disguised," Jace explained, "in the form of a gift."

Dorothea frowned blankly at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Simon pointed at the deck of cards. "The tarot deck my mom painted for you. She hid the Cup in it."

"She – ?" Dorothea's gaze fairly flew to the deck, lying wrapped in its silk cloth on the table. Her eyes gleamed, and she reached for them, but Simon was faster. Without thinking, he snatched the deck from beneath her fingers and retreated a few steps away from the table with them. The witch scowled, but said nothing as Simon put Simiel in his pocket so he could unwrap the cards.

This time, it was different. This time he felt the electric thrill of power in the runes painted on the back of the cards, almost vibrating against his fingertips. Their music was subtler, quieter; the hum of a child trying not to be noticed. _Look away, not here, nothingness, la la la..._ He didn't listen to it: he fanned the cards and plucked out the Ace of Cups. For a moment he felt like he was back in the dream – as if this were only a momentary pause, and in a minute the music would start again, and he and Jace would return to their dance.

As if his mom would be smiling in front of him when he looked up from the card.

She wasn't, of course. But Simon's throat tightened with disappointment he couldn't help. "This is it," he managed, flipping the card around so Jace could see it. Alec and Isabelle had stopped pretending to look at the posters and had turned to look; hushed, expectant, a little reverent, as if they expected Raziel himself to come bursting out of the card.

Simon moved forward and placed the rest of the deck back on the table.

"It's only a picture," Dorothea said. She sounded disappointed. Simon forgot about being polite and ignored her; he turned the card back over and stared at the familiar brush strokes of his mother's artwork. It looked just like it had in the dream: the gilt of the Cup, the hand that was both strong and slender curled around its stem... It wasn't Jocelyn's hand. Had she used a model, or her imagination?

"Simon can get it out of the painting." Jace stepped forward, his stele a silvery wand between his fingers. He spun it and proffered it to Simon handle-first.

Simon took it absently, without looking away from the card. "Yeah," he mumbled. "But...maybe I shouldn't yet." The inside of his skull felt like a beehive on speed. A card was easier to hide than a goblet; it was also much easier to destroy, if they were ambushed on their way back to the Institute and it was a choice between setting it on fire or letting Valentine's minions steal it. And – it made his bones frost over to think of it, but even if Valentine's goons got hold of the card, Simon didn't think they would find it easy to convince Jocelyn to get the Cup out of it for them.

_Do you think Valentine _listens_ when your mother begs him not to –_

Simon shoved the card into the inside pocket of his jacket, roughly. The Shadowhunters all winced. "_Please_ be careful," Jace drawled. "It's only a priceless relic of godly powers."

Simon ignored them. "I'll get it out when we reach the Institute," he said, handing Jace back his stele.

"Would you like to use the Portal?" Dorothea asked suddenly. Her eyes were bright, like sunlight on new coins, and her dangling earrings shivered, as if the witch were trembling imperceptibly. "It's so early – you must all be so tired. It would be a much quicker way of getting home."

Her voice had turned as sweet as a caramel apple, and Simon's skin crawled. For no reason he could put his finger on, he thought of the wicked witch inviting Hansel and Gretel into her house of candy, and Snow White's evil step-mother.

_Beneath that caramel is poison. _He could not say how he knew that – his certainty was a cold, dead finger touching the back of his throat – but the others had all come alert, and he knew they felt it too.

"Thank you," Jace said coolly, his amber eyes narrowed, "but we'll have to decline. We have a ride waiting for us, you see."

"Oh, but I really must insist." Dorothea rose from her chair; Simon instinctively took a step back. "I couldn't possibly allow Simon to go tearing about the city at this hour, when there's such an easier option available." She didn't sound like herself. Simon had known Madame Dorothea for years and years, and she didn't speak like this. Her diction, her choice of words – everything was all off, and the hairs on the back of Simon's neck were standing to attention and the thick, disgusting smell of demons suddenly seemed stronger. "He'll get run down and ill. Or – who knows? Anything could happen to him, and his father would never forgive me."

"My _what?_" Simon asked, incredulous, just as Jace said sharply "Don't touch that!"

Too late. Faster than thought Dorothea ripped down the heavy velvet curtains hanging along the wall, and Simon barely heard the dull, thick sound of them hitting the floor because the Portal behind them was open and full of blinding blue light and thick, oily red shadows fragmented by black lightning and –

The darkness came rushing out of the Portal with an inhuman scream.

* * *

NOTES

_Telesma_ is the Byzantine Greek word for 'talisman'. _Talesmes_ is the plural form.

___Dam habrit ava yoter mimayim shel harehem_ – the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Thanks to anon over on ao3 for the translation help!

A transducer is a machine that converts one form of energy into another. There are transducers in phones to turn sound energy into electrical energy and back again, for example.

Having gained clarification on the timeline of TMI (i.e., the fact that City of Bones takes place in August, not June as I thought), the conversation between Izzy and Simon in the previous chapter – the one about the Harry Potter books – has been edited slightly to accommodate the correct timeline.

Next up: the battle against Abbadon!


	24. Chapter 24

Firstly, I would like to thank Pink Pickles and Carina22 for their reviews! I couldn't respond directly because Pink Pickles has the private messaging function switched off, and Carina22 wrote a review as a guest, which for some reason means I can't answer it. But I like to reply to every review and I didn't want you guys to think I'd missed yours. I didn't! Thank you both so much for reviewing – I always love to hear that my fic has made somebody happy :D Carina, your review is one of the precious lovelies that I have printed out to put on my wall – I swear you guys are making my head SO BIG, my hats won't fit me soon! And Pink, to answer your question, Simon will use a variety of weapons over the course of this series. Simiel will always be very important to him because of what it represents, but by the end of the series it will not be his principle weapon. More than that I can't say, except that you'll see the answer to your archery question in this chapter :D

Secondly – for those of you not watching my tumblr (siavahdainthemoon) and who thus missed my warning – I'm taking a little break after this chapter. Probably not hugely long – two weeks, maybe – but this chapter took a LOT out of me. I didn't sleep for two days because I was flat-out writing, and I was crying as I typed a lot of that time. THE FEELS, THEY WOULD NOT LET GO. Plus, this is more than twice as long as my usual chapters – on average this fic's chapters hit around ten A4 pages in Word. This time you get twenty-one, because I could not stop writing and my beta and I could not agree on a good place to cut it in two.

Plus-plus, my hubby is coming back from his trip on the 15th and I want to have some cuddle time without worrying about the Tuesday deadlines. I'm going to catch up on sleep and my reading and just relax for a little bit.

Plus-plus-plus, I am an evil, evil bitch who likes to leave you with evil, evil cliffhangers. MWAH HA HA.

ENJOY!

* * *

"Get down!" Jace roared. He grabbed Simon's shoulder and shoved him to the floor, flinging himslf down alongside him just as the howling darkness struck Dorothea like a cyclone. Simon heard her scream and knew he would hear it in his nightmares forever – the high, shrill sound of someone being stripped of everything that made them human, turned into an animal by agony. It punched into Simon's lizard brain and his stomach heaved and he could see it, see the whirlwind of wrongness spin around Dorothea, whipping and storming, raging, tearing the posters from the walls and overturning the chairs. It swallowed the witch whole, but she was still visible through the blood-red shadows like a form through a back-lit curtain, and Simon stared in disbelief as Jace swore next to him and Dorothea –

Twisted, morphed, _changed_, and she was still screaming –

"_You said the levels were low!_" Alec shouted over the wind.

"They _were_," Jace snarled. He held his hand between Simon's shoulders, making sure he stayed down.

"Your version of low must be different from mine!"

Dorothea was growing larger, and Simon could hear sickening cracks and snaps that he abruptly realised were probably her bones breaking. The shape behind the shadows – Simon felt bile in the back of his throat and struggled not to throw up. Wrong wrong _wrong._ There was no way to tell if it was his Nephilim blood reacting to something demonic or if it was something deeper that screamed that nothing human was meant to be that shape, but Simon couldn't look any more, or he really would be sick –

Abruptly Jace shot upright, fisting a hand in Simon's jacket to drag him up too. Isabelle and Alec scrambled unsteadily to their feet; it was the first time Simon had ever seen Isabelle look pale, but the hand on her whip was steady. Alec's featherstaff was trembling.

"_Move_, you idiots!" Jace used his grip on Simon's jacket to hurl him towards the door; Simon stumbled and ran, the others close on his heels. He whipped Simiel out of his pocket as they shot out into the foyer, Isabelle outstripping them all and flying for the door.

"It's locked," she announced, spinning back to face them with a wild look in her eyes. "I can't get it open – it must be a spell – "

Jace whipped out his stele, but before he could do more than step towards the door everything exploded. All four of them were hurled to the floor as the building shook, and then the wall blew – Simon ducked his head under his arms as bits of flying wood and brick and plaster burst everywhere. Something hit his back hard, but the plating in his jacket turned it into a bruise instead of a broken rib and he rolled away from the impact, gasping.

"Simon!" Isabelle shouted, and Simon looked up and nearly screamed. The wall that had exploded had been that between Dorothea's apartment and the foyer, and he'd rolled closer to it, to the gaping hole through which some _thing_ was climbing, something so terrible that his mind could only process glimpses of it – ten, twelve feet tall, wisps of silk around its arms that were the remains of Dorothea's turban, a hand with too many clawed fingers _that was reaching for him –_

He scrambled backwards desperately but clumsily, not fast enough, the hand closed around his leg and a supernova exploded in his head and he screamed. He forgot the monster, forgot everything, Jace-Izzy-Alec and the card in his pocket – he clutched his skull and _screamed_, something shredding his brain like paper, flashes of blinding light and colours and music that shattered his eardrums, music like knives and sulphur and blood, like everything good and right ripped apart and turned inside out and it was _agony_, pain like Dorothea must have felt, pain like being unmade, that made you _beg_ to be unmade just so you could stop feeling this, _please let me stop feeling this _and the world spun around him and Simon couldn't notice, didn't care, let the demon have him let it _kill_ him oh god anything anything to make it stop make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP, he would have given up the Cup in an instant if anything had existed beyond the pain. He stopped screaming only because he was suddenly choking, coppery blood in his throat and on his tongue and he was upside-down and convulsing and there were no words for it, no words, he couldn't remember where he was or what he was or what his name was he just wanted it to stop, stop, STOP –

It snapped. Something human and vital shattered like glass and the door in his head broke and the thing that came roaring out spread wings black as night and opened Simon's eyes, snarled "_Simiel_" with his lips and the blade had fallen somewhere but it flew to his hand like metal to Magneto and he jack-knifed, hanging upside-down from the demon's hand he plunged the seraph blade into the its wrist and it shrieked and the monster in Simon's head laughed and laughed with ichor on his lips –

The demon let him go, and Simon twisted in midair, landing in a cat-like crouch with one hand on the floor and the other clutching his sword. The thud of hitting the ground shocked his mind free and the thing inside him fled like a ghost, back through the door in his skull and Simon slid sideways and collapsed, Simiel tumbling from his fingers.

He woke up just a few seconds later, his mouth thick with the taste of blood. Alec was standing over him, braced with his featherstaff and Simon blinked and blinked because there was red blurriness obscuring his vision.

He reached up to wipe it away, and his fingers came back covered in blood. Not black ichor, but his own blood. He'd been bleeding from his eyes.

And his mouth, and nose, and ears. His chin and neck were covered in it.

Jace and Isabelle were fighting, swords and whip flashing like shooting stars. Simon could see the demon now, could see the thick black bones breaking through mottled skin, the dark sores weeping green and black, claws like scythes and empty eye-sockets that opened onto blackness – not raw red flesh, but space, as if it held a black hole inside its skull. And that was what caught sight of Simon, its head snapping to him like a pointer dog. It lost interest in Isabelle and Jace, stepping past them, towards Alec and Simon –

Except Jace was there, a seraph sword in each hand, the blades long and thin like katanas. "Don't even think about it."

The demon turned its attention to the blond, and something in Simon lurched with protective panic, instantly wanting to sweep Jace away where that thing couldn't look at him, couldn't see him. "Give me," the demon said, and its voice brought the taste of blood into Simon's mouth again, made his ears ring with the echo of that screamingly horrible music, "the Cup, and the singer, and I will let you live."

"No can do, sorry," Jace answered evenly. "We're quite partial to him, he's wonderful at children's parties. Besides, we don't let him mix with riff-raff. "

The demon did something with its mouth that might have been a smile; it made Simon want to vomit. "I am Abbadon. I am the Demon of the Abyss. Mine are the empty places between the worlds. Mine is the wind and the howling darkness. I am as unlike those mewling things you call _demons _as an eagle is unlike a fly. You cannot hope to defeat me. Give me what I want or die."

Isabelle sucked in a gasp; Simon saw Alec's back tense. "Arm yourself," Alec hissed quietly, and Simon didn't ask how Alec knew he was awake, just did as he was told, fumbling for one of the seraph blades at his belt. He was struggling with Sandalphon when a noise made him turn his head, and despite everything he almost laughed; Simiel, in its sheathed dowel form, came rolling along the floor to stop beside him, somehow sheepish. Simon had the sense that it was embarrassed to have gotten lost. He snatched it up gratefully as Isabelle asked, her voice trembling, "What about the witch?"

Abbadon swung its head to look at her. "She was a vessel only. She opened the Portal and I took possession of her. Her death was swift." It smiled again. "Yours will not be."

"Oh, I don't know," Jace drawled, distracting it from Isabelle. "I think the smell might kill us quite quickly."

Abbadon hissed. Simon caught a quick glimpse of row after row of glass teeth.

"And I'm not so sure about this wind and howling darkness business," Jace continued. "Smells more like landfill to me. You sure you're not from Staten Island?"

"Very sure," Abbadon said, and swatted him like a fly.

"Jace!" Alec jerked forward as if pulled and Simon was on his feet before he'd decided to stand, before he realised that he could, and Isabelle's whip whistled and connected. Abbadon ignored the weal it raised, and ignored Jace, who was cradling his arm with his face gone pained and fragile: the demon was wholly focussed on Simon, who bared his teeth and snarled. Alec started, glancing at him, and Simon wondered what he looked like, with the blood from his eyes and mouth all over his face but he didn't care, it was back, the thing from beyond the door in his head, filling him up like mercury in a glass, Abbadon had hurt Jace and nothing else, nothing else in the _world _mattered next to that –

Abbadon chuckled at Simon's snarl, amused as if by a puppy's growl. Its laughter sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "You have some growing to do before you are any threat to me, fledgeling," it said.

"Yeah?" Simon heard himself say. "How's your wrist?"

The demon hissed, and Simon laughed, cold and mocking. The sound felt so strange coming out of his mouth that he mentally stumbled, and his trance-state faltered. "I think you are not the only one who can grant Valentine the Cup, little singer," Abbadon said. "I think it would be best if you did not grow into your wings."

Before Simon could puzzle out what that meant, Abbadon lashed out, so inhumanly fast that its claws splintered the dim light. Simon had lost the trance, he had no time to move, to do anything but see those arm-length razors plunge down for him –

Alec tackled him and Simon crashed to the floor yet again, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. Isabelle screamed her brother's name as Abbadon's claws caught Alec instead, embedding deep in his flesh so that he was lifted off the ground, impaled on the demon's bladed fingers. Simon shoved to his feet, invoking Simiel with a shout and swinging at the wrist that held Alec in the air, but the demon only flung Alec away, carelessly, like an unwanted toy.

He hit the far wall with a terrible _crunch_, and lay still.

Abbadon turned back to Simon, its mouth twisted into a rictus grin. Simon felt tiny in front of it, like David before Goliath on a day when God was busy elsewhere. Simon backed away, his heart a train in his throat.

_Move. Move, or you're going to die. _

Isabelle's golden whip suddenly licked around Abbadon's throat, and the demon howled, its hands flying to its neck.

"Simon, run!" Isabelle shouted. "It can't get the Cup!"

But he couldn't move. He'd tranced when Jace was hurt but now he was weak again, his bones blades of grass stretched beneath cotton muscles. The memory of the agony that had bled out of his eyes murmured and whispered, an underwater river that could bring down the earth beneath your feet. Abbadon ripped the whip away with a snarl, its fingers scorched and hissing with smoke. It backhanded Isabelle, and her head snapped to the side as she fell. She didn't get up.

Simiel flared, bright and blinding, but something – something happened, when Abbadon looked at him. Simon's heart skipped a beat and he breathed ice, his gaze locked inescapably with that darkness, the unending nexus in the demon's eye sockets. His grip on Simiel loosened, and the blade clattered to the floor.

Simon's knees hit the ground a half-instant behind it.

He didn't see Jace finally look up from his _parabatai_'s injuries. He didn't hear the blond shout his name, or see him come running to help; he didn't see Abbadon's sickening smirk or hear Jace's cry of pain as he was hit, as he crashed into the stairs. Everything was blank.

Empty.

Simon's body swayed, and his lips parted. Blind. He was falling – he was just a spark, tumbling down and down into the black hole that was Abbadon's eyes, swallowed up inside it. It was so cold. So silent. The icy, quiet darkness slid inside him like smoke, into his eyes, his ears and nose, slipping into his mouth like a corpse's kiss. It slid deeper and deeper, into his lungs, his veins, infecting everything, turning his light to ashes and silencing his music. A fist clenching shut around the song that was his heart, and his eyelids were falling as his breath grew slower, and slower, dissolving into the shadows...

Distantly, he heard something: a bang that sounded muffled by distance. It meant nothing until Abbadon turned its head away with a hiss, and Simon rushed back to himself with a choked gasp.

It was Clary. She was carrying Alec's bow; her eyes swept over the scene once and she didn't hesitate. She whipped an arrow from the quiver at her back and nocked it, drew back the string –

It shot free like lightning, a silvery dart that flew above their heads, above Abbadon's –

And smashed the skylight into a hundred thousand pieces.

Sunlight rushed in like a river, a golden flood, the falling glass sparkling like rain despite the muck and Abbadon screamed. It stumbled backwards, trying to cover its head with its arms, but there was no escape: the foyer was full of sunlight, waves and waves of it, and Simon stared in disbelief as the demon fell to the floor, shrieking, scrabbling and shaking like a rat in a trap. It dissolved and crumpled like dust in the wind, folding smaller and smaller just like the demon at Pandemonium had what felt like so long ago, and in minutes the monster that had come so close to killing them all had melted into nothing.

Clary dropped the bow and ran to Simon. She dropped down on her knees beside him, her eyes terrified as she took in the blood all over his face.

Simon smiled at her. "Told you I'd let you rescue me," he said, and passed out.

)0(

_Warmth. Softness. Simon hung suspended, floating embryonic in peace so perfect and all-encompassing that it was tangible, caressing his skin like silk. His veins were velvet, braided over shining silver bones. There was no air, but that was all right: he didn't need to breathe. _

_ He opened his eyes. He was underwater, and it was night. The distant rumblings of thunder came to him, muffled by the waves; flashes of gold streaked the far-away sky, painting gold threads with brief lives on his skin. The stripes of light were growing smaller and smaller as he sank deeper into the water, pulled down by the anchor tied to his ankle, an anchor as black as Abbadon's bones – but he felt no fear. There was something waiting at the bottom of the ocean, something terrible and wonderful, something that would make it all worth it. A star hidden beneath the coral like an undersea volcano, and it would tell him his name._

_ He twisted in the water, trying to look over his shoulder and down into the depths for the star, but something passed over him. He looked up instead, in time to see the shadow of wings suddenly block out the lightning. Someone or something settled on the surface of the waves, but Simon couldn't make it out, could only see the wings and a shadowed face as a hand slid into the water, extending down to him. _

"Niisa, oadriax esiasch,"_ a soft voice whispered, full of love and music, music to catch Simon's heart on a shining silver hook. _"Té ipam capimao."

_ It was the most beautiful voice Simon had ever heard, a voice that turned each word into a song, one that used the spheres of Heaven for its instruments; harps strung with diamond-dust wormholes and galactic storms played like trumpets. Each word gleamed in front of Simon's eyes, runes more intricate and exquisite than anything he could imagine. They reverberated inside him deeper than mortal words could reach, and desperately he stretched upwards, reaching for that hand. The anchor around his leg grew heavier in response, pulling him down faster, but now Simon kicked, trying to slow his descent. But it was too far, too far to reach, and abruptly his serenity shattered into panic._

"Naraphurmal azm!"_ he cried, and instead of bubbles opalescent Marks spilled out of his mouth, floating upwards through the water. _"Obelis!"_ He'd changed his mind, he didn't want to go into the dark, not yet – he didn't want to hear his name, because suddenly he knew that when he heard it he wouldn't be Simon anymore; he would be someone else, something else, unmade and changed. _"Obelis!"_ he pleaded again. _"Gon ipamis!"

_ The hand withdrew, and the shadow of wings spread and flared, beat. The figure vanished into the sky, abandoning him, and Simon's despair had no sound. He struggled, kicking and beating with his arms, trying to swim up, towards the storm raging in the sky, but it was no use; the anchor was the weight of a world at his ankle, dragging him away from the surface and down into the dark, the dark that would unmake him forever._

_ And suddenly above the water the lightning outlined enormous wings with a white roar. The winged shadow plunged into the water, a sea eagle diving with hand outstretched, and the lightning was imprinted on its skin in a hundred glowing runes bright as fire, and Simon clasped a wrist emblazoned with an _enkeli _Mark like a piece of the sun, and breathed. _

)0(

His lungs inflated with a gasp, sucking in bloodstained air, and for a moment Simon's head was full of dark water, a shadowed face he could almost make out and a hand gripping his forearm, pressing their arms wrist to wrist –

Then the battle with Abbadon came back in a rush, and he jolted upright.

He was in the van. Clary was behind the wheel, cursing up a storm but with the sharp, bitten-off edges to her words that said she was terrified. Isabelle had shotgun, giving Clary directions between desperate glances over her shoulder at her brother, because Alec –

_Alec_.

They had laid him out on a blanket in a futile attempt to keep the blood from staining the seats, but they needn't have bothered: whatever colour the fabric had once been it was dark crimson now, soaking and copper-scented. Jace was bent over him, tracing endless runes on Alec's chest that faded as soon as they were completed. Simon was distantly amazed that Jace found anywhere to put the Marks: Alec's body was – it didn't look like a body, it looked like a _corpse_. He couldn't possibly be alive: Jace or someone had ripped open Alec's shirt, so it was impossible to miss the seven deep gouges cutting diagonally across his chest, scoring him from shoulder almost to his opposite hip, shredding flesh like a chainsaw. Instead of a simple clawing the furrows ended in mangled pit-like cavities where Abbadon's fingers had punched into and through Alec's body; the image of Alec hanging impaled on the demon's claws flashed sickeningly through Simon's mind.

There was so much blood, and Alec lay so still, and there was no way to deny it: _that should be me. _If Alec hadn't pushed Simon out of the way... Icy nails dug into Simon's chest, and adrenalin pooled like venom in his gut.

_That should be me. _

He was still dizzy from having sat up so quickly – it had only been a moment, not quite a heartbeat when Jace looked up at him. His expression hit Simon like a blow: it was the face of a man screaming internally. If that scream was silenced for a moment by the sight of Simon – if the agony was briefly broken by flashes of shock and relief and a kind of broken joy that streaked across his face like stars falling to their deaths – then it was only for a moment. The fear and pain and grief and guilt in Jace's eyes were too deep, the storm in them too wild for soothing even as they begged for solace.

Simon had to look away, sick with guilt but unable to stand against the onslaught.

_That should be me._

If Jace agreed, he made no sign: he reached over Alec's body and fisted his hand in Simon's shirt, jerking him close. He curled his hand around the back of Simon's neck, and it was wet against Simon's skin, wet with blood. The sound he made as he pressed his forehead against Simon's was – it tore shreds out of his heart.

"I'm sorry," he whispered helplessly, brushing his fingers over Jace's hair. "I'm so sorry."

"Ss-Simon?"

Simon jerked back, staring down at Alec with pulse-pounding shock. _He's alive?!_ But Jace just nodded, the jerky, disjointed motion of a broken doll. "Yeah, Alec," he said softly, trying to smile while his eyes screamed. "You did it, you saved him." His voice was choked. "He's fine."

Simon would have given anything to be the one bleeding out in that moment.

"Good," Alec breathed. He hadn't opened his eyes. "Couldn't let your _parasta_ – _parastathentes_ die."

Jace swallowed hard. "He's not my _parastanthes_, Alec," he said gently.

"Not yet." Alec laughed, and it was horrific, wet and choking. "Gonna be. Couldn't let you lose him."

Jace clenched his eyes shut and locked his jaw, and Simon couldn't bear it. "You're not dying either," he told Alec fiercely, tearing off his gloves. "This is – this is ridiculous, everyone knows it's the black guy who dies first. You're going to be _fine._"

Jace stared at him, but Simon counted anything, even _are-you-insane_ confusion, as a win after the _death-of-worlds _agony still waiting in the back of Jace's gaze. "None of us are African-American."

"Exactly. So _no one _is going to die in this story." Simon shoved off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. "Now shut up and show me how the fuck we fix this – "

He froze, staring at his arm. Branded on him in a smooth twist of black pearl was the rune from his dream, the horned diamond he'd heard before singing in the seraph blades and tasted on Jace's skin. _Angelic power_, shining as if the Mark had slipped from the angel's wrist to his, imprinted like black silk, passed on like a kiss.

_That's impossible. _Except it also didn't fucking matter, Simon had to strain to hear Alec breathe and it was a wet, shuddering sound, and the mystery could wait till later. "Jace!" he snapped. "Tell me how we fix this!"

It was Alec who answered. "Can't," he said simply. "The runes – "

"By the Angel, stop talking!" Isabelle cried. Simon had all but forgotten her: when he looked up she was watching them, tears streaming down her face. "Save your energy, Alec!"

Simon met Clary's eyes in the rear-view mirror. Her face was wet too, but when she caught sight of him she gave a shuddering gasp. "_Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam,_" she whispered. "_She'asah li nes bamakom hazzeh._"

He'd never heard her say that before, but her mom had said it once or twice and Simon knew what it meant: _Blessed are You LORD our God King of the universe, who did for me a miracle in this place_. The Hebrew blessing for witnessing a miracle.

He didn't have time to ask her what the miracle was, could only pray that God was paying attention and would give them another one for Alec. "Give me your stele," he ordered Jace.

"It won't work," Jace said. "I've been trying. There was demon poison – "

"_Give me your fucking stele!_" Simon shouted, and Isabelle sobbed, pressing her hand over her mouth. Wordlessly, Jace handed it over, his face pale; Simon snatched it out of his fingers and bent over Alec.

"You're not fucking dying for me, you bastard," he told Alec, choked, blinking back the burn in his eyes as he wiped a patch of Alec's collarbone clear of blood. "That is not allowed, it is _not allowed._" He put the tip of the stele to skin and started tracing an _iratze_. "I haven't even shown you _Queer as Folk _yet, you can't die without seeing the blazing hotness that is Brian Kinney – " God, there was so much blood, and Simon lightened the pressure of the stele because he thought he could feel things grinding beneath his fingertips and _no_, fucking _no, fuck _the demon poison, this was _magic _and magic didn't just stop working, it wasn't computer code to freeze up if you screwed the CSS, it was _MAGIC_. How did waving a piece of wood turn happy memories into a silver totem animal; how did Gandalf summon the light to drive off the Nazgûl; how did a song sung by a lion create a world? It didn't make sense, because it didn't have to, there were no rules and no exceptions because _IT WAS MAGIC_. Demons existed and that meant there were things that could kill them, things that could beat them, Shadowhunters and seraph blades and healing runes, because Jace was wrong, the existence of one _did _prove the other, if there was a Hell there had to be a Heaven, if there were demons there had to be something other-better-stronger and that was the end of it, Sauron's tower always fell and the Authority always lost and the White Witch always died and _THAT WAS THE END OF IT_ –

_You are not going to die –_

And Alec didn't. He kept not-dying as Simon drew rune after rune on every bit of skin he could reach, _iratze _after _iratze_ that didn't fade away but stayed where he put them, clumsy and severe but bright, inky black. Simon's head felt like the pool at the base of a waterfall, pounding and roaring and no, no, _NO_, he refused any other option. He could feel something fighting him, a thick, cloying violet-violence like the thick bruise of internal bleeding; it pushed at Simon's stele from the underside of Alec's skin and Simon snarled and pushed _back_, carving the Marks into Alec's collarbone and chest and arms, lining the claw marks with them like intricate stitches and the wounds didn't close completely but they closed a little and the bleeding slowed. Jace used the shreds of Alec's shirt to wipe the blood away so Simon had room to work and the runes from the dream danced in front of Simon's eyes, golden and glowing on the angel's skin and he could see the bones sluggishly coming back together under his hands, bit by bit, slow and unhappy but it was working, _it was working. _

Suddenly Alec gasped, sharp and amazed, and Simon froze, jolted back to reality and terrified that he'd pressed too deep or too hard. But Alec only said wonderingly, "I can feel my legs," and Jace's expression snapped into blankness and Simon was desperately thankful that he hadn't known how bad it was when he'd started. He never would have believed he could fix a broken neck.

He kept going, not daring to stop with the demon poison working against him. Clary coaxed Isabelle into a conversation, asking questions about Abbadon ("it hid in the Portal so the Sensors didn't pick up on it,") and explaining where she'd learned archery ("six years of B'nai B'rith camp,"), but Jace was silent and Simon never looked up from Alec's broken body until the van suddenly stopped.

"We're here," Clary announced.

Jace and Isabelle both burst into motion. Simon got out of the way, shaking and hollow and sick as Alec's sister and _parabatai_ carefully lifted him up on the blanket and carried him up the steps to the Institute. Hodge was standing in the doorway.

"Are you okay?" Clary climbed into the back of the van. Simon couldn't read her expression, which hit him hard. He'd thought he knew all of her faces.

"I think so. I just – I feel empty. I think it was the runes." Harry Potter magic was drawn from the wizard. Was the same true of runes?

He didn't have time to take the thought any further before Clary burst into tears and flung her arms around him. "I thought you were dead!" she cried. "You weren't breathing, Simon! You fainted, a-and you weren't breathing, you had no _pulse_ – " She buried her face in his shoulder. "It's a miracle, it has to be – you weren't _breathing_ – "

Simon hugged her reflexively. For an organ that had been dead a little while ago, his heart was sure pounding now. _I wasn't breathing? _"I'm fine," he murmured shakily, holding her tight. "It's okay, Lewis, I'm fine – "

She leaned back and punched his jaw. _Hard. _"Don't ever do that to me again!" she shouted, her face red and streaked with salt. "Or I swear to God, Fray, I'll kill you myself! I'll bring you back as a zombie and kill you _over and over_ – "

"I don't think zombies are real, somebody would've mentioned it," Simon mumbled, cradling his jaw. _I hope._ He looked up and flinched away from the rage in her eyes. "I'm sorry! Sorry! I won't die again, I promise!"

"You'd better not," she said darkly. "Or I will _invent _zombies, just for you."

She hugged him again, hiding her face against his shoulder, and he held her just as tightly, and let her.

)0(

They didn't linger very long, and caught up with the others in what Simon thought of as the entrance hall. The last time he'd paused in here, Alec had nearly killed him; now Jace's _parabatai _was the one almost dead, hanging limply between Jace and Isabelle. The shadows under his eyes were like bruises.

_He's not out of the woods yet,_ Simon thought with a jolt. He'd already begun to believe that Alec was safe, but in his frenzy of rune-drawing he'd missed the fact that Alec's wounds still gaped open, and his chest was still concave. Simon had kept him alive, not healed him; the difference between life support and a cure.

"Let me help," he said hurriedly, darting forward to take Alec's upper body from Jace. "Your arm..."

Jace shook his head dismissively. "After drawing those runes – " he began.

"Hosanna's garters, _I'll _do it!" Clary shoved both of them out of the way, hooking her arms under Alec's shoulders with only a small grunt of effort. "There. Izzy, which way?"

Jace frowned after her. "Hosanna's garters?"

Simon shrugged. "When she was little, she thought Hosanna was a person. It stuck."

Jace nodded in the way that meant _crazy mundanes. _"I have to go with him." He sounded tired and wrecked and tense, and Simon badly wanted to tuck him into bed but knew he had a snowball's chance in Hell of convincing Jace to be apart from Alec right now.

He didn't resent it. "Go," he said gently. "I'll wash up and come find you, okay?"

Jace exhaled, and his eyes were so – so _deep_, twin chasms in an ocean of gold, all need and hurt and fear even as the rest of his face was perfectly composed. "Do you know what Hodge's first words were?" he asked suddenly.

Simon blinked at the non-sequitur. He glanced around, but Hodge must have left with Isabelle and the others. "What?"

"He asked where the Cup was." He turned and followed after the others without another word, and without looking back.

)0(

Giving up on finding any kind of public washroom, Simon stepped into an unoccupied guest room and used the cubicle-sized ensuite to clean the blood off. What he really wanted – needed – was a shower, but the thought of leaving Jace alone with his fear for Alec that long was unacceptable, so Simon bent over the sink instead, splashing warm water over his face and scrubbing with his fingers.

He looked up at himself in the mirror to check if it was all off: instead he ended up staring at his reflection, shocked, and not at all sure that it was really him. Maybe it was a magic mirror.

He peered at himself. The dried blood on his face had been reduced to watery red streaks, but there were a lot of them. He touched his upper lip, and beneath his left eye. Even after the water both places were thickly crusted, and he shuddered, remembering Abbadon, remembering screaming. He'd choked on blood, and cried it. When he turned his head there were dried ribbons of it trailing from each ear.

_Eyes and nose and mouth and ears. _What had Abbadon _done _to him? None of the others had reacted like that. They'd been hurt when the demon hit them, but they hadn't collapsed and convulsed.

He washed the rest of the blood away, from his face and neck and from his hands. The water ran in rivulets down his arms to his elbow, faintly pink lines criss-crossing his brand new rune.

He stared at it for a moment, dizzy. He really _didn't_ feel so good. Not as though he were about to collapse again, but drained and ungrounded. Shaky. _How much is blood loss, and how much is the runes? _

He dried off his face and hands, shrugged his jacket back on, and left the little room, for once trying _not _to think instead of pouncing on every fly-through thought. Abbadon, the dream, the rune on his wrist, the _iratzes_ that had worked where Jace's hadn't – it was both too much and too inconsequential with Alec maybe-dying. None of it mattered next to that. All of it could wait.

_If he dies – _

_ If he dies if he dies –_

His mind could get no further.

No. Wait.

_If he dies, he dies for me. In my place. _

His thoughts should have stayed frozen.

Church was waiting for him, at least, because Simon still did not have a map of this place. The cat was perched at the top of the stairs, and Simon didn't have a lot of experience with cats but he was pretty sure they weren't supposed to make noises like that – Church sounded like a broken toy, screeching and yowling until Simon took the stairs two at a time to reach him. Then, apparently satisfied, the cat shut up and led Simon to the Infirmary.

Jace had not left even to clean up. Leaning against the wall, the hands toying with Simiel were covered in drying blood, and his shirt was torn. A bruise was already blossoming on his cheek, but his arm, at least, seemed to have been healed. It was no longer hanging like a piece of meat from his shoulder, anyway. He opened his eyes as Simon approached. Simon braced himself, and didn't flinch.

"I was wondering where that got to," he said, glancing at his seraph blade.

"Bonded blades never get lost." Jace handed it to him silently.

Simon took it. A spark of light flickered through the crystal, a happy glow, before it dimmed and Simon snapped the blade into his vambrace. "How is he?" he asked quietly.

The Infirmary doors were open – Simon could see Alec lying corpse-still on one of the beds, Clary and Isabelle both handing Hodge various bottles and tools as he asked for them. But Jace didn't glance that way, as if he already knew. Simon thought of how Jace had touched a rune and told Alec to intercept Simon all those days ago, how he'd been able to speak to his _parabatai_ although they were rooms away from each other. Maybe Jace _did _know. "He's lost a lot of blood. Demon poisonings are common, but since it was a Greater Demon, Hodge isn't sure if the antidotes he usually employs will be viable." He breathed in slowly. "If your runes hadn't worked, he'd already be – "

He cut himself off. "I should want to know how you managed that," he said after a moment. "But I find I don't care. It should have been impossible, but you're always doing impossible things."

"Six impossible things before breakfast," Simon murmured. He reached out and took Jace's hand. Jace stared at their laced fingers as if he had never seen them before.

"Impossible things," Jace repeated softly. He smoothed his thumb over the back of Simon's hand, and his face softened a little, as if it was suddenly easier to breathe.

Then his expression shuttered, and he let go. "This is my fault."

"What is?" It took Simon a beat to get it. "Alec? Jesus, Jace! It is _not _your fault!"

"Oh, but it is." Jace's voice was like glass the moment before it broke, vibrating and fracturing. "_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._"

St Xavier's taught Latin, but Simon had never been very good at it. "What?"

" 'My fault,' " Jace translated. " 'My own fault, my most grievous fault.' "

"It is _not_," Simon snarled. He shoved Jace against the wall, heedless of both their injuries. "Do you think he wants you thinking that?" he demanded, desperate that Jace didn't, _didn't _think that. His mom still cried over a wooden box every year, and that was a normal grief. How much worse would it be, how much more deeply would it cut if Jace carried misplaced blame around with him on top of the loss? "Do you think _he _blames you? You were on the other side of the God-damned room, Jace, there was nothing you could've – "

"Exactly," Jace interrupted. "_Exactly_. I was on the other side of the room. He's my _parabatai_, the one I fight beside, and I was nowhere near him. I should have had his back. I should have saved him. Instead he saved you, and my first thought – " His voice broke, ragged and raw, thick with grief and guilt, " – my first thought was 'thank the Angel, he's all right.' " His hands came up on either side of Simon's face. "Do you understand? _You_. My _parabatai_, my brother, and all I could think about was _you_. And that's why he did it, because he knows that, knows how much it would hurt me to lose you. He did it for me, and if he dies it will be like I killed him."

"That's not true," Simon whispered.

"And then you did die," Jace continued, as if Simon hadn't spoken. "Your heart stopped, you didn't breathe – do you know what _ya'aburnee _means, Simon?"

Simon nodded.

"No," Jace shook his head, his eyes wild, "no, you don't. You can't. I thought I did, but I didn't. I do now. I thought you were dead, and I – they teach us that to die in battle is a thing of glory, but the only thing I could think of was that I wanted the grave next to yours."

Simon froze. "Jace..." he breathed. He had no idea what to say. _We haven't even been on a date yet_; the glib words flew to his tongue, inane and meaningless. He swallowed them. He felt as though he'd been shot.

"I was trying," Jace said. "Alec was still alive, he was hurt, I had to help him. The living always come first, but the whole time, I kept thinking 'I'll never hear him laugh again. I'll never see him smile. I'll never get to say – ' "

His voice grew choked, and he pressed their heads together, brow to brow and Simon clutched at him, hugged him tight enough to crush because he couldn't bear it, because everything was tight and trembling and about to shatter, because –

"I know," Simon answered, softly, fiercely, desperately, "I know, I know, I know. I – I do too."

Jace was shaking. They both were, Simon realised. Resonating with the words that could not be spoken, not with Alec's blood so thick in the space between them.

"We've only known each other a few days," Simon whispered.

"I know." Jace's exhale was a shudder. "And it terrifies me. This, terrifies me." He brushed his lips over Simon's, quick and desperate, not so much a kiss as a plea. "But a life without you terrifies me more."

_I wanted the grave next to yours. _Yes. Yes, this was terrifying. This wasn't – no one should feel like this, not so soon and maybe not ever. Simon knew what his mom would say; that this wasn't healthy, that he should let Jace down as gently as possible and tell someone, maybe a psychiatrist, certainly a parent. Guardian. Somebody.

But if it had been Jace...if Simon had thought Jace were dead...

"We shouldn't feel like this," he said weakly. "This isn't normal, Jace. It's not healthy. It's..." The platitudes were tasteless. He knew he should believe it – God, he knew how he was supposed to react, what he was supposed to do. Mom, his teachers, the careful, sterile sex ed at St Xavier's, a thousand books and movies about crazy, obsessive romantic partners – by the Great Parrot of Hades, he should be horrified. Freaked out.

He should be running in the other direction, as fast as he could go.

Jace shifted his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over Simon's cheekbone, a smooth sweep beneath his eye. "Do you care?" he asked softly.

He'd never felt less like running away in his life.

"No," Simon whispered. "I should. But I don't." He turned his cheek into Jace's palm. His chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. _I don't want to be good anymore,_ he thought, something fierce and desperate curled tight around his heart. He'd always been the perfect son, the perfect student, the best friend. He'd never handed in a piece of homework late, never sneaked a drink or gone over the speed limit. He did his chores without needing to be reminded; he kept his room tidy and cooked dinner when his mom was tired. He didn't stay out late; he always swallowed the words he knew he'd regret later.

He couldn't imagine regretting these words.

"I want to want," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sick of being sensible all the time. Being _good_. Putting everything I want in a little box because I'll regret being stupid, because I'm always thinking about _later_. I'm tired of always reminding myself that things probably won't work out. Lint probably won't go anywhere. You and me are probably going to go down in flames. I don't _care!_"

He fisted his hand in Jace's hair and it _hurt_, a thickness in his throat. It was almost unbearable; he wanted to shout and he wanted to cry. "I want you," he said hoarsely. "And I don't care."

Jace looked at him for a long moment. The emotion in his eyes was beyond words: intense and longing and disbelieving, fear-hope-hunger. Something screamingly soft. "If I swear it's not a distraction," he whispered, "can I kiss you?"

In answer Simon tilted his head and pressed their lips together, open-mouthed and fervent, and Jace's sharp intake of breath had jagged edges and then they were breathing for each other, unable to stand alone but not having to – God, not having to. There was nothing sexual in it, no tongue or teeth, just the burn in Simon's eyes and the fist in his chest and this terrible, earth-shattering _need_. He couldn't tell if he was flying or falling but he knew he couldn't let go. Touching clouds or hitting the ground, he didn't know how to let this go.

_The ocean's in my blood, and I can't get it out._

_ I don't even want to try._

He didn't realise he was crying until salt threaded its way between their lips. The kiss ended, and Jace didn't say anything, didn't say a word. Silently, he tilted Simon's face to his and brushed his mouth over Simon's cheeks, so softly. Again, and again, slow as snowfall and sweet as a dream, he kissed each tear away and a knife to the heart would have hurt less.

"What's happening to us?" Simon whispered.

Jace didn't answer. Maybe he didn't have one either. Simon's hand was still in the blond's hair, and Jace tugged it gently, drew it down to the side of his face and laid his own hand over it. He turned his head to kiss Simon's palm, and then his wrist, and finally, belatedly noticed Simon's rune. "What's this?"

He slid his thumb over it, and Simon shivered, something beyond words catching in his throat. "You should know the answer to that better than me." He grinned, but it didn't fit quite right on his face.

"_Enkeli_." Jace brushed his thumb back and forth over the sweep of black, softly. "Angelic power. When did you draw it?"

"About that." Simon took a breath. "I didn't."

He expected disbelief or confusion, but instead Jace grew pale. "Is this like the music you heard?"

Yesterday. Was it only yesterday? Simon thought of the song that had grabbed hold of his soul and spun it like a top, and swallowed hard. "I don't know. Maybe? A little?" He hesitated. "When I was...out of it," he said carefully, "I dreamed. I was...drowning, I guess, kind of, and the guy who rescued me had this," he turned his wrist pointedly, "on his arm. When I woke up, it was on mine."

"That's not possible."

Simon frowned at him. "I can hear magic music and see runes in my dreams, but they can't get onto my skin?"

"It's different." Jace's eyes were wide, his pupils inky and deep. "The _telesma_ was already in your memories somewhere. You were just remembering it. But you can't – nobody can create runes without a stele. They don't just _appear_."

Simon shrugged to hide the swirl of uncertainty caught like frenzied birds in his ribcage. "This one did." He paused. "Is it better or worse if I say my rescuer was an angel?"

Jace opened his mouth to speak, but a pointed cough had them both whirling around. It was Hodge, standing in the doorway of the Infirmary, and Simon instantly turned his face away, hastily wiping away the last of his tears.

"I have done what I can," Hodge said after a pause. There was a small, unhappy frown between his eyes, but whether that was over Alec or seeing Simon and Jace so clearly together, Simon couldn't tell. "He is sedated, not in pain, but..." He shook his head. There was drying blood on his now-rumpled suit. "I must contact the Silent Brothers. This is beyond my abilities."

Simon stepped away from Jace for propriety's sake, letting his hand fall from Jace's face. He half-hoped that Jace wouldn't let him go, but the blond was entirely focussed on Hodge. _No,_ Simon corrected himself firmly, _on Alec._ And it hit him all over again, that Alec was dying.

"How long will it take them to get here?" Jace asked.

"I don't know." Hodge began walking down the corridor, without looking back. "I'll send Hugo immediately, but the Brothers come at their own discretion. You know this, Jace."

"But for _this_ – " Jace caught up with his tutor quickly; after a moment's hesitation Simon followed, hanging back awkwardly so as not to seem intrusive. He wasn't sure if he was welcome for this conversation, but he couldn't imagine leaving Jace alone right now. "He'll die otherwise."

"Yes," Hodge agreed calmly.

Simon didn't need to see Jace's face to read the stricken blow in the line of his _erastes'_ shoulders.

There was a window open in the library, when they reached it, filling the room with the scent of rain. Hugo was on his perch by Hodge's desk, and he made a pleased, chirruping sound that seemed more appropriate to a robin than a raven when he saw his master. Hodge strode over to him, absently stroking the bird's head before reaching for paper and pen from his desk. "It is a great pity," the old man said, taking a seat, "that you did not retrieve the Cup. It would, I think, bring some comfort to Alec, and certainly to his parents."

Simon glanced at Jace, but the blond's face was impassive. _He asked where the Cup was_, Jace had said, and Simon had assumed Jace had told him. Apparently not. He wondered what Jace _had_ said, if he'd snapped and let loose all that forest-fire power at his tutor for his insensitivity. Simon wished he could have heard it. "We _did_ get the Cup," he told Hodge, turning to look at him. "I don't know why you think a fucking hunk of metal is more important than Alec, but we got the damn thing." His voice was perfectly even, but he felt a spark of vicious satisfaction as Hodge froze.

"_You have the Cup?_"

In answer, Simon reached into the inside of his jacket and withdrew the card with a little flourish. "Safe and sound," he said mildly, resisting the urge to snarl. _As if a fucking chalice could ever matter more than a human life, you utter bastard._

Hodge's pen clattered onto the floor; the man didn't seem to notice. His eyes were locked on the card. "Take it out," he breathed. He looked to Jace, gesturing impatiently. "A stele, give him a stele, Jace!"

Beyond the door in his head, something whispered. "No," Simon said coolly. "I have a better idea. You tell the Silent Brothers that we have the Cup, and that they can have it when they heal Alec." He flipped the card over. "I bet they'll come running then, won't they? For their precious Angel's Cup."

Hodge gaped. "One cannot blackmail the Silent Brothers!"

Simon smiled at him. "You can when you're holding all the cards." He grinned, flipping the card again. "Literally."

"Hodge, just do it," Jace pleaded. At the sound of his _erastes'_ desperation, Simon's dark amusement fled like a raven taking wing. "Simon's right, they'll come for the Cup!" When Hodge hesitated: "It's _Alec_."

Hodge sighed, and met Simon's gaze. "At least remove the Cup from the card, Simon. As a sign of good faith."

A whisper. A flicker of a warning, of something not-quite-right. "No," Simon answered, tucking the card away in his pocket again. "I'm not the one who has to prove himself here." He heard his voice grow cold. "I'm just the only one in the world who can give them the Cup."

Hodge was silent for a moment. "Well, now, that's not quite true," he said finally. "There is also your mother."

Ice, a short sharp dart of it. "Somehow I don't think she's an option," Simon snapped.

"I think I will have to disagree with you." Hodge rose from his chair and moved around to the front of his desk. Hugo flew up from his perch, cawing. "If you will not retrieve the Cup, Simon, then she will have to be made to."

This time the ice was a sword. "What are you talking about?" Simon whispered.

"Hodge?" Jace's voice was caught between confusion and wariness.

Hodge smiled, the curve of his mouth both sad and wry. "I see now that you are more like him than I thought," he said. "You have his ruthlessness in you."

"Whose?" Simiel glittered on his arm, and Simon took a step back, obeying the whispers growing louder and louder in his head. "Who am I like?"

"Your father," Hodge said, and with a cry like a scream Hugo plunged down from the room's heights directly for Simon's face.

)0(

Jace shouted, but Simon couldn't hear the words. The world exploded into a storm of black and red pain, avian shrieks and long, sharp claws – too slowly. Blackness whirlwinded outside his skull and roared inside it, came rushing through the door in his mind screaming for blood. Everything snapped into crystal and rain as the claws raked his face – once. Hugo went for his eyes but his talons skidded off Simon's glasses and Simon spun; the raven's wings beat in slow motion and Simon snatched one out of the air, his hand closing on one oily-soft pinion. The bird screeched and the boy whirled, throwing Hugo like a Frisbee, and for a horrible moment he thought of Alec when the raven hit one of the bookshelves.

The bird fell to the floor and lay still, just as Alec had done.

The reminder jerked him out of his trance. For a moment he stared at Hugo's corpse, horrified – and then a crushing blow hit him between the shoulders.

His Shadowhunter jacket was padded with body armour, but the hit came at the very base of his neck, where the chainmail in the collar could deflect a knife but didn't block pressure; Simon fell forward before he could take a breath, almost landing on his face. He caught himself just in time – but not enough time to move. Hodge's foot caught Simon in the jaw and everything went dark.

He woke slowly on his back, the side of his face throbbing with what would no doubt be a magnificent bruise. It took him a second to realise that he was on the floor of the library; when he did he made to leap upright –

And nearly screamed. His jacket, vambraces and boots were gone, and his hands were bound behind his back with something that seared like fire when he tried to move. A second's experimentation informed him that the same burning bonds were looped around his ankles.

Trying not to panic, he gingerly shoved himself onto his side. There was no way to manage it without pulling at his bindings, and he bit down on the pain. If he hadn't experienced whatever Abbadon had done this morning, he wouldn't have been able to bear it. Now, at least, he had been through worse.

Hodge was straightening up from the pile made of Simon's lost clothing, the Mortal Cup's card in his hand. Simon barely noticed, because Jace was lying at Hodge's feet and he wasn't moving and everything just _shattered_.

_NO._

Hodge glanced at him. "It would have been better if you had remained unconscious," he sighed. He followed Simon's gaze to Jace. "He's not hurt," he reassured him. "Merely sleeping."

Simon lifted his eyes, very slowly, to Hodge's face.

Hodge flinched back a full step, before catching himself. He laughed nervously. "You truly are your father's son."

Simon wasn't interested in the bait. He didn't care whose son he was, didn't care if the man who'd played sperm donor a lifetime ago had been his mother's husband or if she'd had an affair with a Greater Demon or whatever big fucking revelation Hodge was trying desperately to dangle in front of him. Nothing mattered, nothing could _possibly_ matter when Jace lay so still and so vulnerable.

"If you hurt Jace," said the Other behind Simon's eyes, in a voice as soft as the drawing back of surf before the tsunami struck, "I will end you." Real fear flashed across Hodge's face, and the thing wearing Simon's skin smiled, slow and knife-sharp. _Good. _Hodge _should_ be scared. "I will hunt you down no matter where you run or how long it takes, and when I find you I will rip a hole in the world and _throw you into it_."

Hodge stared at him, the whites of his eyes very visible. "What are you?" he whispered.

Simon's smile widened. "The death of anyone who hurts him." The words flowed from his tongue, poison-sweet and velvet-soft. Everything was very, very quiet inside him, the whole world narrowed down to the point of a blade, to one razor-sharp point. Everything unnecessary – thoughts, qualms, morals – was stripped away, leaving only this ice-fire-metal-stone creature at his core, raw and real. "_Vonph sa ciaofi sa ds teloc_."

_The wrath and the terror and the death._

Hodge stilled. "How do you know that tongue?" he breathed. "I have studied Enochian for decades, but you cannot possibly – the books, the teachers, the _years _it takes just to master the grammar..."

_Enochian. Is that what this is? _Simon didn't know and he didn't care. He grinned. "An angel taught me. The same one who marked my arm." _I think. _It was just there in his head, the language, formless and shining like water, its source that place behind the broken door. It slipped through his fingers and left them red, red, _red – _until he needed it, and then he tasted copper and ivory and the words bled out of him. "_Geh ciaofin vl?_"

_Are you scared yet? _

Hodge swallowed. "I begin to think that perhaps only a fool would not be," he said softly.

"Then let Jace go." The fanged playfulness vanished into the blazing ice. The game, the delight of toying with Hodge's fear was cast aside in an instant. "Do what you want with the Cup, but let Jace go. _Now_."

"I wish I could." Some of the alert strength went out of Hodge's shoulders, but Simon didn't let it fool him. He had believed Hodge was a tired old man – and Hodge had attacked like a _blitzkrieg_ while Simon was distracted with Hugo. "I know you will not believe this, but I truly do. I wish you and Jace no harm at all. But Valentine insisted on Jace as part of my bargain."

Lightning? It was a _sun_ that caught fire in Simon's head, a white-hot star that screamed light and heat and fury inside his skull, searing everything else to ash. Whole worlds went up in flames behind Simon's eyes. "_Doalim ds canilu-uls_," he hissed, and he meant it, meant it more than he'd ever meant anything in the _world_. No teenage melodrama or cringeworthy B-movie script or alpha male posturing _bullshit_: if Hodge laid one hand on Jace Simon would kill him without hesitation, would rip him apart and _glory _in it and nail up the pieces in Times Square so the whole world could see what happened when you hurt Simon's _erastes_. The horrified reactions of the people he loved never entered the equation, it didn't occur to him to pause and wonder what his mom would think, how Clary would react, what Jace himself might think of it. It was a brute fact, like gravity: hurt Jace and Simon would wash his lover's wounds clean with blood and blood and blood.

Hodge looked saddened, of all things. At some other time the confusion might have pushed Simon out of his trance but not now, not with Hodge drawing a stele out of his sleeve and Jace lying there helpless and Simon _screamed_, black rage and bloodlust and _I will destroy you, I will UNMAKE YOU if you touch him! _He fought the bindings on his wrists and the blue pain only sent him further and further away from the door, deeper and deeper into the grip of this thing roaring for Hodge's blood.

He calmed a little when Hodge stepped away from Jace, making no move to draw some unholy rune on him, Mark him with God-knew-what. Instead Hodge walked over to Simon, his face very tired.

"I know you will not believe this," he repeated as Simon fought his bonds and snarled, "but I truly have your best interests at heart. If you knew..." He shook his head and sighed. "There is no time to move you," he muttered to himself. "We will simply have to ensure that he does not see or hear you."

He knelt down, and Simon lunged for him, ungainly and graceless and vicious. Hodge dodged back just in time to avoid Simon's teeth in his arm.

"You will thank me when this is over," Hodge told him, tracing a circle of runes around Simon's prone body, ignoring Simon's Enochian abuse, curses, oaths swearing to personally consign Hodge's soul to Hell. "I promise. You and Jace... You need to be separated."

"Fuck you!" Simon shouted. Black, black and red and screamingly bright gold. There was terror running into the rage now, bleeding in because all his fury was impotent and Simon couldn't cauterise the heart-wound, everything was turning all to blood and _no, no, NO!_ "Leave him alone! _Don't fucking touch him!_"

Valentine. Hodge was going to – what? Valentine, Valentine had made some kind of bargain for Jace – why, for what, to take him use him kill him _NO!_

He _screamed_, fury and fear and the raw animal promise of murder and pain and he didn't feel human, he shed humanity like a snakeskin and screamed out what he found underneath as Hodge rose to his feet, the cage of runes completed. By the way Hodge's eyes suddenly slid off Simon like water off glass Simon knew the man couldn't see him anymore, that he had made Simon invisible and likely inaudible but he couldn't stop, he _could not stop _roaring his desperate denial as Hodge made his way back over to Jace. He had no idea what was coming out of his mouth, what words, English and Enochian all blurring together and the boneless sprawl of Jace's arm was so fragile and vulnerable and Simon would kill them _all_, slaughter them with his bare hands and his teeth if they did anything to Jace, if they, if they –

Hodge took Jace's hand and removed the heavy silver ring Jace always wore, the one with the Wayland W. The traitor put it on his own finger.

For a moment, he hesitated, and Simon struck a bargain with the world, a thousand of them, promising everything, promising sainthood if Hodge would only change his mind, turn the clock back, leave Jace _alone_ –

With a sharp, sudden movement Hodge twisted the ring three times.

A heartbeat. Two. Simon stopped screaming, holding his breath and waiting, waiting for whatever was meant to happen. But nothing did.

Four heartbeats. Five.

He was just beginning to breathe again when silver light suddenly spilled out of the air. It moved like water, rippling and rushing in a shimmering starlit waterfall, and it glowed like diamonds and raindrops on the hair and shoulders of the man who stepped through it.

"Starkweather," he said peremptorily. "You have the Cup?"

Wordlessly, Hodge held up the card. He stood as if frozen, and Simon wanted it to be awe or surprise or anything but fear, because he did not want anyone worthy of fear anywhere near Jace.

Jace could have been asleep, there on the carpet. Or he could have been dead. Simon caught a snarl between his teeth, felt it crunch like bone between his teeth.

"My Lord Valentine," Hodge said after a beat. "I had not expected you so quickly."

Simon's eyes snapped up from Jace and swept over the newcomer's face. So this was Valentine. _Threat, enemy, rip his heart out of his chest!_ The droplets of his Portal were already fading away from the shoulders of his suit.

He was a warrior. That was immediately obvious. He stood tall and strong, with smooth muscle under the sleeves of his shirt and the thick scars of a thousand runes visible at his wrists beneath his cuffs, and he held himself with that liquid grace all Shadowhunters seemed to have. But he had more than most: he wore an aura of power like a crown, and something about him reminded Simon of an uninvoked seraph blade, as though it would only take a breath to turn him into a weapon. He was handsome, Simon acknowledged without interest. In the mundane world he could have been an actor or a model instead of a murderous psychopath, with that face; regal and sensual and charismatic.

Although given the state of Simon's thoughts right now, perhaps he shouldn't be throwing stones. Psychopath would fit him like a glove just now.

Simon didn't care about Valentine's face. But his hair...Valentine's hair was pale blond, paler than Jace's; icy and almost white instead of Jace's warm, bright gold. And it was familiar.

Simon did not struggle to place it. Shadows and fire and blood and razors; he remembered instantly where he had seen it before, and in a flash accepted it and moved on, brushing the revelation aside as inconsequential.

The only thing that mattered was Jace.

"I told you I would come to you through a Portal," Valentine said. His voice was rich, a surprisingly beautiful voice, like polished steel against wine-red velvet. "Didn't you believe me?"

"Yes, of course. It's just – I thought you would send Pangborn or Blackwell, not come yourself."

Valentine's lips curved slightly with amusement. "You think I would send them to collect the Cup? I am not a fool. I know its lure." He held out his hand. A silver ring shone on his finger, but Simon was too far away to make out the engraving on it. "Give it to me."

"I want what you promised me first." Hodge tried to look determined, but only succeeded in being surprised at his own daring.

Simon hoped Valentine killed him.

But he didn't. He smiled. "First? You don't trust me, Starkweather?" His eyes were dark. "I'll do as you asked. A bargain is a bargain, though you have not quite fulfilled your end of it." His gaze swept over the card, and then Jace on the floor, dispassionately. "You give me a painting, not the Cup, and only one boy. Where is the other?"

"Simon left," Hodge said quickly, and Simon did not start but his eyes narrowed, his attention sharpening still further at the revelation that Valentine was looking for him too. _Can I use that? _"He is staying with a mundane friend of his. I couldn't convince him to retrieve the Cup before he..." His words faltered under Valentine's cool scorn. "I – I thought that, perhaps, Jocelyn..."

"Jocelyn is indisposed," Valentine said smoothly. He looked down at Jace again, and Simon hated, _hated_ the look on his face, composed and detached as though he were examining a tool. _He is beautiful smart brave hilarious good gentle strong PERFECT, he has value, so much value, don't look at him like that!_

_ Don't look at him at ALL!_

"But no doubt Jocelyn's son will come running after his little catamite," Valentine murmured, and Hodge flinched but Simon _snarled_, snarled and wrenched at his arms and fought uselessly through the raging pain in his hands and his heart. "And he can retrieve the Cup when he arrives. Very well." He looked up at Hodge once more. "Although I must say I was astonished to get your message. I wouldn't have thought you'd mind a life of hidden contemplation, so to speak. You never were much for the battlefield."

"You don't know what it's like." Hodge's expression was ragged: Simon wanted to rip it off his face in shreds. "Being afraid all the time – "

"That's true. I don't." Valentine's voice was cold enough to burn. He stared at Hodge for a long moment. "If you did not intend to give me the Cup," he said softly, "you should not have summoned me here."

It was a warning, but still Hodge hesitated. "It is not easy to betray what you believe in," he whispered. His eyes fell to the card in his hands, and even as he kept Valentine distracted from Jace Simon loathed him for his weakness, for his pathetic spinelessness. "Nor those who trust you."

"Do you mean the Lightwoods, or their children?" Valentine sounded honestly curious.

"Both," Hodge said.

"Ah, the Lightwoods." Valentine brushed his hand over the smooth edge of Hodge's desk. "But what do you owe them, really? Yours is the punishment that should have been theirs. If they had not had such high connections in the Clave..." There was a metal globe on the desk, copper or brass, and Valentine touched his fingertips to it gently, as though it were something precious. "They should have been cursed along with you. As it is, they are free to come and go, to walk in the sunlight like ordinary men." Delicately, he traced meandering lines on the globe, spinning it softly – until he stopped. "They are free to go home," he murmured.

No doubt Valentine's hand had paused over Idris. Hodge looked away from it, as if the reminder was too much. "They did what anyone would do."

"You would not have done it. I would not have done it. To let a friend suffer in my place? And surely it must engender some bitterness in you, to know that they so easily left this fate to you..."

"But it is not the children's fault." Hodge was torn, clearly at war with himself. It was pathetic but Simon could only pray that he would keep talking, that someone, Isabelle or Clary, would come looking for them, that Valentine would be forced to flee without Jace, without hurting him, without – "They have done nothing – "

"I never knew you to be so fond of children," Valentine said mockingly.

"Jace – "

"_You will not speak of Jace_." Valentine's voice was a whip, and Hodge cringed from it.

"You won't hurt him," the old man whispered. He clutched the card to his heart. "You swore you wouldn't hurt him."

"I never did that," Valentine said, and Simon _screamed_, a wild, primal denial that clawed its way up out of his depths, out of somewhere black and dark and bleeding and he didn't care, didn't care that it shredded his throat or what he must look like, sound like, inhuman and animal and _doalim ds canilu-uls_, _DOALIM DS CANILU-ULS_, it hurt and burned and he pulled and pulled at his wrists, his ankles, he would have torn through the bonds with his teeth if he could only have reached, anything to get out and get Jace and the pain didn't matter, nothing mattered just _don't hurt him, don't you dare, DOALIM DS CANILU-ULS! _

Valentine let his hand fall from the globe, and he turned towards Hodge. "And what would you do if I said I did plan to hurt him?"

_Kill you_, Simon swore instantly – not-Simon, the other thing, the shadow with black wings spread to block out the world and the light and everything that wanted to qualify what he would do to get Jace free and safe; things like _sadism is wrong and killing is wrong and if you do this and this and this you will be as bad or worse than them –_

_ I want to be worse. I want to be so much worse that they never DARE come anywhere near Jace again for fear of me!_

"Would you fight me?" Valentine continued. "Keep the Cup from me? Even if you could kill me, the Clave will never lift your curse. You'll hide here till you die, terrified to do so much as open a window too widely. What wouldn't you trade away, not to be afraid any longer? What wouldn't you give up, to go home again?"

Hodge's face was twisted with agony. That other Simon, the one who loved _Star Wars_ and cookie-dough ice-cream and playing his guitar – that Simon might have felt sorry for him. Might have cared. But the Simon wearing his skin felt a vicious surge of satisfaction at Hodge's pain, a snarling triumph. _Get used to it. It's nothing compared to what I will make you feel when I get out of this, when this is over, when I hunt you down and –_

"Tell me you won't hurt him," Hodge said, his voice trembling, "and I'll give it to you."

"No." Valentine's voice was unexpectedly gentle. "You'll give it to me anyway."

He held out his hand.

Hodge hovered in an agony of indecision, and Simon's gaze fell to Jace's still form. Hodge could give Valentine the Cup or not, it didn't matter; Valentine could have the whole world, all of it, he could have everything if he would just leave Jace alone, just this one thing, one person, he could burn every inch of earth if he just left the bit Jace was standing on and it didn't matter how loudly Simon screamed, how hard he fought and struggled and slammed against the wall of runes trapping him in, he couldn't get free and that meant, that meant –

All the rage in the world was useless –

_Wake up,_ he begged, praying, praying for Jace to wake up. _You have to wake up, you have to get away, he's going to take you and hurt you and k-k-k –_

_ And I can't stop him –_

The truth of it was so big, so much, so far beyond the pain Abbadon had dealt him – _I can't stop him, I can't save you, Jace please God wake up wake up wake UP! _He couldn't breathe past it, couldn't scream, couldn't tear his eyes away from Jace's face. _Please please please please please you have to wake up you have to you have to you have to PLEASE –_

Hodge held out the card with a trembling hand, and Valentine smiled, and took it, and the world blurred with Simon's helpless, hopeless tears. "Thank you," Valentine said. He inspected the card thoughtfully. "I do believe you've bent the corner."

"Jace," Simon whispered. "Jace, please – _please_ – " The word no longer made sense, he couldn't remember what it meant but he couldn't stop saying it, every beat of his heart singing it, _screaming_ it. "Please, please, please, p-please, _please!_"

_I will do anything, I will, I'll be good forever, I'll die, I'll go with Valentine I'll go straight I'll give up music I'll give up my memories of him, I'll forget him I'll live without him God, Raziel, anyone, please, please, I will do ANYTHING just don't, don't don't don't let him take Jace, please, PLEASE! _

"Stop it!" he screamed as Valentine bent down to Jace. "Don't touch him, _don't_, _eál ul niis, eál gi adarepehetra sa geh ialpor baglé doalim, zacam ovs!_" The words grew lost in the sobbing screams, bright, searing gold words that tasted like blood and they weren't enough, even if Valentine had been able to hear him they wouldn't have been enough, and Valentine lifted Jace up like the weight was nothing and Simon screamed, _no, no, this can't be happening, no, please God no no no. _

"He'll be with his father soon," Valentine murmured, looking down at Jace's pale face. He brushed back a lock of Jace's gold hair, sickeningly tender. "Where he belongs."

There was nothing left to break, and yet something broke. The shards of himself, the flakes and splinters, caught fire and burned and died and Simon lost it, some tiny part of himself must have been kept in reserve because now he lost hold of it and everything was gone, thoughts and fear and the ability to feel pain as he writhed and shrieked and the tears fell warm as blood on his face and the bonds holding him captive burned like battery acid and he couldn't feel it, couldn't think, lost lost lost it, so deep his mind couldn't even hold Jace's name, only the sense of him, the condensed crystallised core of what Jace was and who he was and and and black wings beat in his head, drowning out everything but the tiny fragile spark that was what he knew Jace to be –

And it wasn't enough.

"Wait!" Hodge cried as Valentine turned away towards the Portal _(with Jace, with Jace in his arms because Simon wasn't enough to save him)_. "What of your promise to me? You swore to end my curse."

Valentine paused. "That is true." He did not turn around, or move at all, but Hodge gasped and jerked back, his hand reaching up to his chest in disbelief and stunned pain. Black liquid, like a demon's blood, trickled from between his fingers as he clutched at his heart.

"It is done," Valentine said. "May your bought freedom bring you joy."

And Simon could only watch, his heart dying in his chest through his tears and his wordless, agonised-desperate-pleading cries as Valentine stepped into the waterfall of light.

For a fraction of an instant, not even a full breath, the spray of light-droplets covered Jace in a shroud of diamonds, glittering and mourning and exquisite, and Simon thought _this is how you take the ocean out of the blood –_

And then Jace was gone, and Simon screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

NOTES

In case it's not clear, the dialogue in Simon's dream is also in Enochian.

_Nissa, oadriax esiasch. Té ipam capimao._ – Come away, little brother. It is not time.

_Naraphurmal azm! Obelis! Gon ipamis! _ – Help me! Please! I can't!

On Hodge knocking Simon out – you only have to move a person's jaw a little bit horizontally to tap a certain nerve. That tap will knock a person out cold – a kind of reset button. You can research it if you like, but please don't use it on anybody outside of self-defence!

_Doalim ds canilu-uls_ – dare(/sin) and die screaming.

_Eál ul niis _– I will end you.

_Eál gi adarepehetra sa geh ialpor baglé doalim_ – I will tear you down and you will burn for this.

_Zacam ovs_ – I will send you into the dark.


	25. Chapter 25

Before we begin, I would like to say a HUGE FREAKING THANK YOU to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I will not apologise for leaving you all with such an evil cliff-hanger, but I am very glad you all (presumably!) decided to stay on and stick with it to the end.

Secondly: a small edit has been made to chapter 23. So you don't have to reread the whole thing, I will just tell this: mention has been made of the fact that Simon has his _armask__ō _cuff in his jacket pocket. It will be important later, but it was in fact just a tiny paragraph inserted into the chapter, and in no way affects the events of any of the previous chapters. I just wanted you to know.

And now, enjoy!

* * *

Lights out.

Simon checked out of the world. Even years later, he could never remember those first few minutes after watching Jace disappear. What he did, what he said, what he thought; whether he screamed or wept, lay still or tore at his bindings, cursed or begged, in English or the bloodstained gold of Enochian – he had no idea. He didn't know what Hodge had done, if he'd stood and marvelled or gone to his desk to pen a note, if he'd looked awed or joyful or guilty. The Doctor could have swept in, extended an invitation to leave this messed-up planet forever, and gone away disappointed – Simon would never know. There was a red hole in his memory full of shrieking static, and its edges stayed forever raw and hot to the touch.

_(He never got those lost moments back. He never wanted them.)_

When the lights came back on, somebody else was home.

For a moment, he just breathed. He was lying on his stomach, his face pressed to the carpet; his throat and lungs felt as if they'd been scoured by razor wire. His eyes were dry as fire.

He was concentrated down, purified. Perfected. There was no room in him for tears.

He turned onto his side. The pain in his wrists barely registered as a flicker of irritation. "_Odo-emetgis, Hodge gon_."

_Let me out, Hodge._

The old man started. He was still standing in the middle of the room after all, the hand pressed to his chest so coated in the black gunk of his curse that he might have been wearing a glove. But he overcame his surprise quickly. "I can't," he replied, his voice quavering slightly as he shook his head. He took a step away from Simon – from the person wearing his face. "You'll only try to kill me."

"I won't," Simon lied, without hesitation. Then told the truth, baldly and cold: "I don't have time to deal with you. I have to go after Jace. Let me go, and you'll have hours, maybe days or weeks before I come after you."

Hodge stared at him. Simon stared back, the shards of his heart caught in ice like rose petals between the pages of a book.

"Are you – yes, you're quite serious, aren't you?" Hodge pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe at his hand, nervously.

"Do you want me to promise to leave you be?" Simon asked softly, agonisingly aware of every second falling away from him like sand in an hourglass. Gone, gone and never coming back, when he might need every one of them. "I will. Your life for his, but it only counts if I can save him, Hodge." His lips pulled back from his teeth. "If Valentine kills him because you kept me here too long to reach him – "

"Is that what you think?" Hodge's handkerchief was smoking now, as if the stain on his hand were liquid fire – and indelible, because it wasn't coming off. Hodge stared at it unhappily, then put the cloth away. "He isn't going to kill Jace, Simon."

Simon did not dignify that with an answer. "_Odo-emetgis gon,_" he repeated instead, low and intense and something, something in him vibrated like the plucked strings of his guitar and his fierce, cold desire, his urgency, his _Jace_ took shape in his head, a flash of burning whiteness, curves and twists and a harsh, quick slash, a rune, the song of his need –

Something passed over Hodge's face, just for a moment – a waxy blankness, an emptiness. For the space of a breath he might have been a sleepwalker, his eyes fogged over, his face as animated as a badly made toy, and the strings vibrated and Simon _needed_ and Hodge, Hodge took a slow, uncertain step towards Simon in the circle, his unblackened hand clumsily reaching into his pocket for his stele –

But the moment his fingers touched the crystal wand he jerked back, so hard and quickly that he nearly fell, the mask over his features dissolving in a storm of horrified terror as loud and clear as a scream.

"_What are you?"_ Hodge cried, the whites of his eyes bared and wild, the kind of panic Simon had never seen on an adult's face before. "How – how did you – _what are you?_"

There was no room in Simon to care. "Let me _out_," he snarled, "and maybe neither of us will have to find out!"

But Hodge kept backing away, shaking his head, and Simon nearly screamed with frustration. Seconds, precious seconds, there wasn't _time _for this! "Where is he taking Jace, Hodge? _Tell me!_"

"_No_." The soft denial tore out of Hodge like a bullet, but Simon's heart was in pieces and locked away in ice besides. The shot missed, and Hodge – Hodge looked at Simon as if he saw a monster. As if he could actually see beneath Simon's skin to the creature wearing it.

"I used to think that the Nephilim were great," Hodge whispered. "But all our angelic heritage has given to us is a longer distance to fall." He shook his head once more, trembling. "I do not know what he did to you, Simon. But I am sorry for it."

"Don't you dare walk out," Simon snarled, struggling to sit up as Hodge turned towards the door. "Hodge – Hodge! _Geh adrpan_ _baglé Hodge, doalim,__ Iada __ipé-camliax gi doain__ – __coronzah, odqvas-sibesi!__" _

Hodge's hand found the door handle, and opened it.

_ "__Gi sibesi-emetgis noar pvrgel, Hodge!_" Simon screamed. "_Gi sibesi-emetgis noar pvrgel!_"

Hodge hesitated.

"I swear it," Simon spat, blazing, fierce, not knowing where the words or the surety that they were true came from but meaning it with every cell of his soul. "Walk out that door, and they will burn you alive."

For a moment, he almost thought Hodge would reconsider. Would turn back to him, open the rune-cage, help him get Jace back.

Then:

"I'm sorry." It was so soft that Simon almost didn't hear at all, and then Hodge was gone.

)0(

This time he did not scream.

He was still lying on the ground; he was not flexible enough to work out how to sit up, with his wrists and feet still tied with burning bands of fire. He breathed.

The other Simon – the mortal, the mundane, the seventeen-year-old who loved Kingdom Hearts and Chinese food and who had thrown the book across the room when Dobby died – _that _Simon – was crying, wracking, helpless sobs. Deep inside, sitting amidst the shards of their shared heart, he clutched his knees to his chest and cried for Jocelyn and Jace and his failure to save either of them.

It hurt so much, and he was so, so scared. So terrified that he would never see either of them again.

Softly, gently, the other Simon – the one with the taste of Enochian on his tongue, the one who could ignore the agony of their bonds, the one who would make Valentine regret ever hearing Jace's name – _that _Simon – gathered up the boy crying, and crooned to him, and brushed his tears away. The Simon without a name tenderly put the mundane Simon to bed, wrapping him in shadows like velvet and silk, tucking him away deep and safe where nothing else could hurt him.

_Brgda, _he whispered, stroking that other boy's hair. _Eál gi tox iolcam_. _Brgda_.

And that part of Simon curled like a seashell and slept.

The other part – the stronger half, the one that was steel and ice and chrome, sunspot-fire and lightning and a long, screaming howl in the dark – closed his eyes once more.

Tragedies happened every day. Thousands of them – millions of them. Someone died every second, and almost everyone was someone else's beloved. Sister, son, cousin, husband, friend, wife, brother, daughter, lover; boyfriend, girlfriend, significant other, other half, better half, beau.

_Erastes_.

They died, and not because they weren't loved enough, but because sometimes love itself just wasn't enough. Cancer. A bullet. A car crash. Heart attack. A robbery gone wrong, a fall in the shower, a brain aneurysm. Sometimes it was someone's fault and sometimes it wasn't, but love couldn't cure AIDS or cardiomyopathy. It could stop the Killing Curse but not a bullet, and it didn't matter if you would gladly die in someone's place, didn't matter if their death would shatter you, didn't matter if you would give anything to bring them back. The Fates didn't make exchanges. They didn't strike bargains. They didn't care about love.

In the real world, love didn't matter.

But Simon had never lived in the real world, not really. He had lived in Hogwarts and Destiny Islands and Narnia, he grew up in Lyra's Oxford and Barrayar and Hed; he travelled the Middle Kingdoms with Herewiss and stood against the dark with Sabriel and in their world, in _Simon's_ world –

In his world, love was always enough.

He closed his eyes and felt the edge, the precipice that he'd thought was a door, the one he'd been flirting with ever since the Shadow World opened its claw-tipped arms to him. The line in the sand, the chasm beneath his feet, the trigger and the knife's edge and the bullet all in one. The agreement that could not be taken back, the contract that could not be unsigned, the choice that could not be unmade.

_Go down this road, and you are never coming back. _

Wordless. Silent. No one spoke to him; there were no voices, in Enochian or any other language. No angel appeared to say _it is not time_; no dreams overtook him with their fragile, quicksilver meanings hidden between heartbeats. No runes. No warnings. No song. This one was all on him, and on him alone.

Simon's answer, his reason, his everything, was just one word:

_Jace._

Simon felt the edge, and took a breath.

And dived.

Rage. Anger like nothing on Earth seared through him as he fell, plunging through layer after layer of mindheart – call them _annamay_ and _pranmay_ and _manomay_, the Hindu sheaths surrounding the soul; call them body and breath and memory; call them the id and ego and super-ego – he crashed through them all, tearing them to shreds with a Valkyrie's battle-scream echoing in his head and his throat. Everything was ripped away, _everything_; Alec dying in the Infirmary and Jocelyn in a torturer's cell and Hodge's betrayal, the dreams and the runes and the music, howling winds and shadows raking him and _burning_, a crucible of falling, flames turning his skin to ash and all of it blowing away, dissolving, screaming with a mouth rowed with sharp teeth and his ribcage broken open to the sky and he curled tight around that one thing, that one word, one name, holding it close as the fire pyrographed it into his bones and engraved it on his blood, the heat crystallising his heart into something that blazed like a star. Building and building, it built and built and this was it, _you are never coming back, _howling, wind and wings and _this is how you take the ocean out of the blood _and it was waiting for him, the ocean, there beneath everything, at the core of everything; he smashed into it, plummeted into the depths from beyond the sky with lightning on his skin and it was so _cold_, ice, he gasped and it rushed in on the taste of blood –

_Oh my God, you're playing _here_ have you had dealings with demons, little boy _where's my mom_ I'm Isabelle Lightwood for our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France _**_I ASK ENTRY TO THIS HOLY PLACE_**_ we all have secrets I'm not your father now someone is invoking his name it seemed like the most likely explanation take this then **say its name – Simiel – and it will extend** _it's just like a videogame, it's just like a videogame_ forget Alec, _I'm_ going to kill you if you keep stealing my kills wonderful drink, tea **IN THE NAME OF THE BATTLE THAT NEVER ENDS **__the love card _sed lex dura lex_ after you Pangborn if we duel again can I use a car instead of Simiel those men killed my father you cannot leave the Institute **you have no right to a seraph blade! **call me when you're close and I'll have a pizza waiting there's this magic cup **you** **want to kiss me, don't you?** sounds like a manga **I ASK THE USE OF YOUR WEAPONS **__and then you get married you haven't shut up about it since it happened fabulous wonderful breathtakingly **I am not useless **do you think Valentine _listens_ when your mother begs him not to there's something I have to tell you **this place is not for monsters** I don't understand why mundanes always apologise for things that aren't their fault it soaked my shoes _**_the boy never cried__ again _**_you don't want me to hold your hand? **like Eärendil** love you, Simon blondie's head on a stick instruments made of cheese don't turn into a daffodil while I'm gone I like your shirt _**_IN THE NAME OF THE ANGEL RAZIEL_**_ we put the holy water in his gas tank you know I'm memorable, it's true it's the Cup that concerns us _tell me where she is!_ somebody took Clary **do you want to be as bad as them, or do you want to be worth something where it counts?** I'd just stopped believing God cared you're not from our neighbourhood are you **I ASK YOUR BLESSINGS **__I prefer to think of myself as an unappreciated genius the only bargain you're getting today is your lives for our friend she bit me please tell me this isn't Sebastian I can't believe I didn't think of it before _**_ON MY MISSION_**_ my shoulder's dislocated **his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, and broke its neck** come sit down **he doesn't realise that falling for you wasn't a choice** not Jesus, _Jace_ **it means that you're mine, and I'm yours** you're mine, Symeon – my beloved sacrifice you couldn't hear me you said you were going to stay away from him **AGAINST THE DARKNESS **__I don't need to know his favourite colour to know _him **_TO LOVE IS TO DESTROY_**_ he could lose everything over you **you are nothing** enjoying the view you get a gold star screw you eventually I'm wearing a dragon **Theliel Sandalphon Israfel and Anael** lover and beloved **we're not monsters, Simon** the king of the gods fell in love with him and stole him away you Hellspawn let me _move_ we share a profound bond **ya'aburnee **we both love Jace it's an old edition she did design this _telesma_ the eggs are bombs_**_ AND TO BE LOVED_**_ get in losers we're going demon-hunting did I turn you down because I'm a lesbian your version of low must be different from mine you sure you're not from Staten Island **I think it would be best if you did not grow into your wings** Simon, run! _niisa, oadriax esiasch_ **no one is going to die in this story** I wanted the grave next to yours **I want you, and I don't care** they can have it when they heal Alec _**_IS TO BE THE ONE _**geh ciaofin vl_ don't fucking touch him! you swore you wouldn't hurt him I never did that he'll be with his father soon _**_DESTROYED _**_it is done._

The water carried the memory of Jace in Valentine's arms, framed by the Portal's light, deep into Simon's lungs, into his blood. It flooded him and it was power and it was death, it was thunder and the shattering of the earth, the screams of distant stars and the jewel at the core of the sun and

_It_

_ Was_

** _ NO! _ **

Rejection-negation-disavowal-repudiation-confutati on-nullification-disilution-abrogation; a contradiction, a _cancellation_, an _annulment_ of that which he would not accept, not now and not ever, _this shall not be_, every _no _in the world distilled into the roar of an erinys spreading black wings across the Earth and blotting out the stars and Jace lying helpless in Valentine's arms, no, no, _this_

_ Will not_

** _ BE! _ **

The full weight and force of the ocean burst forth in a crimson tidal wave, up and out and through the Mark on his arm. The _enkeli _came ablaze like a branding iron pressed to his skin and it was a mirror multiplying the waves into infinity, it was a magnifying glass pulling the tsunami up and up until it set tears on the moon's face and the bonds Hodge had tied around him drowned, swept over and under and snuffed out. Simon snapped his eyes open and his hands out and the wave kept going, smashed aside the cage Hodge had trapped him in like glass under Thor's hammer. The runes on the carpet flared briefly, weakly, dying fireflies; the angelic power rune on his forearm glittered with motes of gilt, like gold dust in ink.

And then both lights dimmed, and were gone.

There was no time to wonder what he'd done, no time to marvel or slump to the floor with the sudden backhand of weakness. Simon shoved himself up, ignoring the pained shriek of exhausted muscles, the ache in his bones. It didn't matter, none of it mattered because Valentine had Jace, _Jace,_ and if Hodge was gone Simon would never know where or how to find his _erastes _–

He forced himself to run for his weapons instead of bolting straight out of the room, snapping his vambraces into place as quickly as he could. Simiel began to glow the moment the leather touched his skin, a steady, hard light like sunlight on a razor's edge, and when he shrugged his jacket on Simon pushed up the sleeves so his _armask__ō _sword blazed on his arm like a warning. When he was about to run for the door he hesitated, a thought catching on his bloodhound-focus like fabric on wire, and turned to the window instead, shoving aside the curtain.

And there he was: Hodge, his head bowed as he crossed the street, the hunch of his shoulders somehow fragile. Simon wasn't aware that he'd bared his teeth until he heard a low snarl rumble through the room, and realised that it was his own. Simiel blazed brighter on his arm.

He let the curtain fall.

Then he ran.

Black wings rustled in his head, red waves lapping against the inside of his skull like bloodthirsty tongues, heedless of the shaky hollowness in his legs, the dull burn circling each wrist and ankle. He ran and wanted to fall and wanted to kill, could still feel the bones-to-water scream of an erinys in his throat begging to come free, rip loose, echo and echo through the hallways until every window shattered and it reached Hodge outside, until the traitor fell to his knees under the weight of the sound, ears and eyes bleeding –

He flew as if the wings were real, as if they beat and moved him through the world, caught in the current and embracing it, letting it carry him. When he and Jace had run from Pangborn and his friend Simon had struggled, unfit and soft, and his body was worse now, tired and drained but something deeper than flesh and blood sustained him, a blinding white light of a battery, a nuclear reactor and if he didn't find Jace, if he didn't get Jace back it would blow them all away –

He saw Clary. He did. But his world was so narrow, so focussed that his mind couldn't process her, didn't understand who-what-why and didn't move out of the way in time. He crashed into her at the top of the stairs, and if he hadn't been on fire he never would have been able to catch her and the railing both before the two of them fell.

"Simon!" It was as though she spoke in a foreign language. "What the hell's going on? No, never mind, just – where's Hodge? Izzy sent me to find him, but I keep getting lost in here – "

The stairs would take too long. Without a second's hesitation Simon grasped the rail and swung over it, exactly as he had seen Jace do that day with the Forsaken, but Jace had gone up and Simon plunged down, and for a second he could hear the wind rushing through his wings, drowning out Clary's scream –

It was a fifteen, sixteen-foot drop. He hit the ground and his knees folded, neat and tidy as if he'd done it a thousand-thousand times, landing in a crouch with his palm slapping forward onto the floor. And then up and off, Clary yelling behind him but her words had less meaning than the wind in his ears. The doors crashed into the wall and he barely heard the grating thud over the wash of the summer heat, humid and thick as blood; he jumped the outside steps and hit the pavement running, his Shadowhunter boots pounding the tarmac in a rhythym almost as hard and fast as his heartbeat.

Shoppers and tourists gave his Shadowhunter gear odd looks, especially his glowing seraph blade, but he ignored them. When he reached the intersection where he'd seen Hodge he spun in a three-sixty, searching for him. _Jace, Jace, Jace_, his pulse sang, and he could feel the sand in the hourglass draining away, slipping through his fingers. A thick crowd was just spilling out of a subway entrance when Simon saw a flash of tweed, and he bolted after it. He didn't have to shove hard to get through the press of people – more than one person saw the twisted snarl on his face and backed quickly away – and Simon got free of them just in time to see Hodge vanish into a service alley.

Simon pushed aside a Dumpster, ignoring his tired body's protests, and stepped into the shade. It was barely midday outside, but the buildings on either side of the alley stretched so high they plunged the space into twilight. Simiel was a beacon in the shadows; the blade's light stretched just far enough that Simon could just barely make out Hodge, standing – hiding – at the far end of the alley.

"I suppose I should not be surprised that you managed to free yourself so quickly," Hodge said.

"Just tell me where Valentine took Jace." Simon moved forward, deeper into the alley. One of the buildings sandwiching them must be a fast-food restaraunt; trash bags full of rotting food were piled against the walls, and plastic cutlery crunched like tiny bones under Simon's boots. "That's all I want. I don't fucking _care_ about you, Hodge. You can go and live in the Bahamas for all I care." _Until I have time to hunt you down._ "_Just tell me where Jace is._"

"I can't do that. Valentine will know I told you, and my freedom will be as short as my life." Hodge turned to face him. In Simiel's light, his face looked haggard. "Did you mean what you said?"

"Which part? Your life for his?" If he had to torture the information out of Hodge, he would need somewhere more private than this, the cool, analytical part of Simon decided. Here they were too close to the street. Someone might hear and intervene.

"No. What you said about my – my Marks." Hodge's voice trembled.

"Yes." No hesitation. He knew it like he knew how to breathe, and couldn't have explained how he knew it any more than he could have explained how to inhale and exhale, but the words that spilled from his lips were as solid and sure as if carved in stone. "You know the Enochian word for runes. _Sibesi-emetgis_, seal of the Covenant, and you are breaking it. You thought the Circle was right, you somehow got twisted up enough to think genocide was for the good of the human race, but giving Valentine the Cup, giving him _Jace_ isn't for the world, it's for _you_. You betrayed other Shadowhunters, and your Marks will _burn you alive for it_."

"Then I suppose I am damned," Hodge said, and threw something bright and silver at Simon's face.

Simon had plucked Hugo out of the air but now he was too slow, too tired: he barely saw it coming before it traced a shriek of white fire across his cheek, deep and searing and Simon probably screamed but he didn't hear it. He stumbled backwards, his hand flying to his face, to the blood running like water between his fingers and the sick, gut-wrenching pain slashing his nerve endings to ribbons.

"Go home, Simon." Hodge already had another of his weapons in each hand; chakrams, circles with razor-sharp edges. Simon recognised them from _Xena: Warrior Princess_, but the reminder couldn't make him smile. He – it – it hurt, it hurt it hurt, shredding the delicate cocoon of the other Simon, smashing him awake, dragging him terrified and young and alone back into the light. "You were not raised as one of us. You have no part of this life of scars and killing. You can still get away."

Simon's eyes watered with tears of pain, and his breath came in quick, short gasps. Blood soaked his hand, his wrist, sleeving him in red so that he almost matched Hodge; it probably looked black in the dim light. His mind spun, dizzy and sick, _I can't do this, I don't know how to do this it hurts it hurts it hurts hurts hurts _–

_So what?_ His own voice, sharp and scathing from beyond the door in his head, from the pit, the chasm running through his mind. _So what if it hurts? Crashing the motorbike hurt worse than this. Abbadon hurt worse than this. You survived that, you can survive this._

_Jace needs you, so YOU WILL SURVIVE THIS._

Simon swallowed it, the thick lump of a pained sob in his throat. _Pain is water and you are a diamond_. It almost made him smile. "Tell me," he repeated, slow and careful because every syllable pulled viciously at the wound high on his cheek, "where Jace is."

"I will not be so gentle a second time," Hodge warned, lifting his hands, and the gleaming discs of metal in them. "You are something that should not exist. Go home. Live as a mundane, put all this behind you. Leave, and never come back."

It hurt. Watching Valentine take Jace had hurt more. Simon exhaled slowly, and lowered his hand. His face was wet with red, sliding down his cheek like tears. "No."

"Then I must put you down." It might have been regret in his voice, but there was a hardness there too, as hard and immutable as the steel that flashed in his hands and he was _fast_, the space between him and Simon vanished in an instant and Simon only just got his arms up in time for the chakrams to hit his vambraces instead of his chest.

Fast fast _fast_, Hodge was slower than Jace but quicker than a tired-scared-hurting Simon; the chakrams trailed tails like comets in Simiel's light, flashing and glittering and dazzling Simon's eyes and he moved-moved-moved, blocking, trying to catch every sharp edge on his vambraces, twisting-turning-ducking-backing up, back and back and back, if they were dancing then Hodge was leading and Simon's vest and jacket were dragon-leather, they turned the chakram's edges but Simon had no chance to grab a seraph blade, no chance to do anything but frantically try to defend himself while his cheek throbbed and his bones pounded, all too aware that he hadn't closed the jacket, hadn't fastened the collar with its chain-mail lining, leaving his throat bare, unprotected, vulnerable to one sharp slash past his guard –

It came, as he'd known it would, and all he could do to avoid it was jerk back – but he misjudged it and leaned too far, fell to the ground and his skull hit the concrete with a dizzying _crack_ that exploded through his head.

He heard Hodge walking towards him and knew he had to move, had to had to, but his tongue felt too thick in his mouth, his thoughts darting and slippery as fish, his cheek was screaming at him and his muscles were ununoctium over lead bones and _J-J-Jace, Jace, no, wait..._ Gasping for breath, he forced his arm to move, reached for Simiel but his fingers were slick with blood, they kept slipping, he couldn't work the catch and Hodge stood over him and _no_, come on, _work_ –

"I'm sorry," Hodge told him, raising his chakram up over the boy lying on the ground amidst the trash and no, no, not like this, _Jace –_

"Hey asshole!" Clary snarled. "Head's up!"

A sharp cutting explosion tore at Simon's eardrums and ripped a shocked cry from Hodge. His chakram fell to the ground with a clatter as red blossomed on his shoulder, like a red rose meant for his buttonhole. He stared at the wound with disbelief, still clutching his second chakram as blood trickled through his fingers. "What...?"

He looked up, and Simon couldn't see what Hodge saw but he saw Hodge's face twist with anger, saw him move his other arm as if to throw his disc – and another shot came instantly, without hesitation, this one taking Hodge through the wrist and the man shouted wordlessly, the chakram slipping through his fingers and bouncing harmlessly a few inches from Simon's leg.

Something else fell too, something small and silver like a coin tossed into a fountain. Simon snatched it up in his bloody hand and wished hard on it.

"Here's how this is going to go," Clary said, her voice a whip. Simon heard her come closer, kicking rubbish out of her way. "I'm going to count to ten, and if I can still see you when I'm done, the next one's going between your eyes. Ready? Awesome. _One_."

"Wait – I – " Hodge was flabbergasted, unable to believe how quickly and suddenly the tables had turned.

"_Two_."

Hodge ran. He bolted out of Simon's line of sight, towards the mouth of the alley, and Clary must have let him pass because there were no more gunshots. Instead he heard the slap of her sneakers against the ground, and then she was beside him, heedless of the discarded burger boxes and rotting pickles as she holstered a God-damn _handgun _under her jacket.

"That's twice in one day you've saved my ass, Lewis," Simon managed, the words coming out mangled and thick. "I think you win."

"I'm the only one allowed beat you up, Fray," Clary answered automatically, her face twisting with worry. "Jesus, Simon, what did he _do _to you?"

Simon tried to sit up; her hands flew to help, supporting his back and shoulders. "M' cheek. Head." Talking hurt; the quip had cost him. Instead of trying again he looked down, unfolding his fingers from around Jace's ring. The silver was smeared with red from his hand; the engraved _W_ had marked itself onto his palm.

The sudden lump in his throat stopped in his breath, and for a second Simon was on the edge of tears. Clumsily, his heart molten lead in his chest, he pushed the ring into the same pocket that held his _armask__ō_ cuff. The pocket zipped up, but his hand was shaking too hard to work the zipper. Clary leaned in to help him without a word, her fingers deft and dry next to his useless bloody ones.

When she was done, she leaned back on her ankles and peered at his face. Realising what she was trying to do, Simon lifted his left arm, angling the glowing Simiel so the light fell on his cheek, giving her light. She hissed. "Simon, I can see _bone_."

"So that's why it hurts."

She growled and made to smack him, the way she had a thousand times, then caught herself, horrified by what she'd nearly done. "You need a hospital. Or one of those tattoo things..." She grew even paler. "Oh, God, what about Alec?"

Simon had forgotten all about him. Guilt like Wolverine's claws raked him. He shook his head, unable to find the words, and groaned as his brain spun in circles, fracturing into uselessness. He reached desperately for meaning and hooked a gleam of thought: _Jace. _

"Jace," he whispered.

"What?"

Simon swallowed and tried to raise his voice, tried to speak clearly. "Jace. Jace is gone. Hodge gave him to Valentine. And the Cup," he added belatedly. He'd forgotten about that too.

"He _what?_"

"Please don't make me say it again." Simon raised his hand to his cheek, but Clary slapped it away.

"You'll get it dirty. Even more dirty. Jesus, okay. Okay." She chewed her lip, thinking quickly. "Right. We're going back to the Institute. Izzy probably knows enough to heal you, and they need to know about Hodge and Jace, and we need to figure out how to help Alec. Yes? Yes? Okay." She straightened up without waiting for him to answer. "I'm going to help you up, and then you're going to lean on me. And we're both going to hope nobody calls the police on us."

"Sounds like a plan." _Jace_, the thing behind the door howled, and the cry echoed in Simon as if his bones were a xylophone. Hodge was gone, Simon had no idea how to find Jace and _time_, every second that turned to ash was one less that Jace had to wait for Simon to find him...

Trying to stand was hell. He was dizzy and sudden movements made it worse, made him want to bend over and be sick. Clary was strong, but she was still tiny and Simon struggled to help her, to support any of his own weight. There was blood everywhere.

"Where did you get a _gun_, anyway?" Simon asked her, desperately seeking a distraction from the frantic panic beating a drum in his head. _Jace, Jace, Jace! _

"It's mom's," Clary gasped, bracing her legs as she tried to pull him up. Simon's legs kept ignoring his commands and trying to do the splits when he wanted to put his weight on them: it was making things tricky. "You know how she's scared of everything? She got it in case anyone ever broke in. We go to the shooting range every Saturday." She shrugged. "You said pack a Star of David. I thought a gun would be a better bet." She gave him a look. "Didn't you hear me shoot out the lock, at your house?"

Now that she mentioned it, Simon _did _remember a loud bang, right before Clary had swept in to save the day. "You – told me – " His breath came hard through gritted teeth: he was about ready to cut his damn legs _off_, "that she was – sending you to – Hebrew school!"

"I lied," she said easily, the worry in her eyes belying her light-hearted tone. "Wanted to wait till I got good, then challenge you to _Time Crisis 4_ and kick your ass."

"No need," Simon told her. "You're amazing. You'd win." He grinned at her. "Breaking and entering, now concealing a weapon. Do you even have a licence for that thing?"

"Hey, this _thing _saved your life. I'd be grateful for my lack of regard for the law."

Finally he was upright, his arm looped around Clary's shoulders. "I think I'm good," he said carefully, and Clary gave a short sigh of relief.

"Okay. Then let's try and get back to the Institute."

One shaky, pathetically weak step. Simon bit his tongue and tried to tamp down on his frustration, on the voice screaming that there wasn't _time_ for this!

Two steps. On the third, Clary carefully manoeuvred them around to face the mouth of the alley, and Simon blinked hard, a new wave of dizziness punching him.

"Simon? What?" She watched his face, her own expression tight with apprehension and concern.

"I think I hit my head harder than I thought," he managed thickly. He hated worrying her. He blinked again, but the hallucination was still there: a wolf straight out of _New Moon_, pitch-black and the size of a horse, a single gray stripe running through its fur. He felt like he was about to be sick; the ground seemed so far away. "'Caus I'm seeing a wolf."

Frowning, Clary glanced towards the alleyway entrance – and froze.

"Simon," she whispered. "You're not seeing things."

"I'm...not...?" Spinning. Everything was spinning, his vision indistinct and foggy, and, and – "Clary," he said frantically, "I think – I think I'm gonna – "

"Simon!"

The world turned soft, colours running together like wet paint, and as Simon slipped under he glimpsed the wolf, striding towards them and blurring, twisting into a man...

...and everything went black.

Lights out.

* * *

NOTES

_Geh adrpan __baglé Hodge, doalim_ – You are cast down for this, Hodge

_Iada __ipé-camliax gi doain__ – _God will not speak your name

_Coronzah__ – _demon

_Odqvas-sibesi__ – _oath-breaker

_Gi sibesi-emetgis noar pvrgel_ – Your Marks ('seals of the promise/Covenant') will burn/become fire.

_Brgda.__ Eál gi tox iolcam. Brgda. – _Sleep. I will bring him back. Sleep.

_Annamay, pranmay _and_ manomay _are three of the _Pancha koshas_, the layers or 'sheaths' Hindus believe encircle or contain the soul.

_Erinys_ is the singular form of _erinyes_, the Greek name for the Furies.


End file.
